


This Rough Magic

by A_Farnese



Series: Penumbra [17]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Balin and Balan, Concerned Arthur, Concerned Lancelot, Concerned Percival, F/M, Merlin betrayed, Niniane - Freeform, Poison, Sick Merlin (Merlin), curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25529389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Farnese/pseuds/A_Farnese
Summary: Spring brings a pair of weddings, but they have drastically different outcomes that could have terrible consequences for the Five Kingdoms. Meanwhile, Merlin's health continues to decline, and an old curse finally comes to light.
Relationships: Gwaine/Linnet, Merlin/Niniane
Series: Penumbra [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/180518
Comments: 22
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

Morgana had to admit it. The food at King Urien’s wedding feast was excellent. She speared another morsel of lamb and chewed it slowly to spare herself the effort of conversing with the other guests, Saxon or not. No matter how flavorsome the fare, though, she found she would rather be at home, at the Isle of the Blessed, sharing a simple meal of baked fish and dark brown bread with Yver than be here, no matter how richly the table was set. The Saxon nobles were too loud and too wild, their manners as odd as their clothes, their voices grating on her nerves when they raised their cups to the bridegroom and his unblushing bride for the tenth time. 

For all that she was young enough to be Uriens’s daughter, the bride, Rowena, showed no signs of fear or unease at the thought of the wedding night. Indeed, from two seats away the woman looked triumphant. Hardly surprising, though. Her coronation as queen of Rheged had happened immediately after the wedding-- a stipulation, Morgana had heard, imposed upon Urien by Rowena’s father, the Saxon King Theoderic. So the new young queen had every right to look pleased as she sipped her wine, a look of triumph in her eyes as she stared out over the throng. At her new subjects. 

Morgana bit back a smile. Whatever Theoderic might have told Urien about his daughter’s history, there would be no virginal sacrifice to the aging king. And if Morgana had correctly read the surreptitious glances Rowena had shared with the younger of the two Saxon sorcerers, she wouldn’t be wanting for bedmates.

Especially if she kept flirting with Accolon, for though she was seated next to him at the high table, Morgana’s own intended had spent most of the evening lavishing attention on his beautiful new step-mother. 

She should have been jealous. She should have spent the evening flirting with Accolon and ensuring that his eyes stayed on her, but she simply did not care anymore. The first rush of love or lust had passed long ago, and the longer Accolon delayed their wedding, the less Morgana cared. But how did one end a political betrothal when its sudden dissolution might cause Urien to strike out at her? In this, Morgana had as little power as she’d had when she was a child of fourteen, and Uther had betrothed her to some Amatan marcher lord. She’d howled at that, but Uther had been unmoved. Her only release had come when said marcher lord had the good sense to die in battle a year later. 

Now, as then, she could only be patient. Perhaps if Accolon was unfaithful to her, she could use that as an excuse.

Was there some spell she could use…?

No. The Saxon sorcerers’ magic was strange to her. She didn’t know what they could and could not sense about her powers. Wait and watch. That was her best strategy. 

“Do you mind if I abandon you?” Accolon said suddenly, startling Morgana out of her reverie. “I need to speak with Grimwulf.” He nodded toward a lanky man across the room, the younger Saxon sorcerer. The one with piercing blue eyes and a smile that never reached them.

“Don’t let me stop you,” she replied drily. 

“There will be something sweet for you later. Don’t worry,” Accolon said, his tone placating. Irritating. She gave him a tight smile and sipped her wine to hide its falseness. He didn’t even notice, swiftly threading through the crowd until he reached Grimwulf, who looked back at Rowena and gave the new queen a savage smile. 

Did the Saxons do anything mildly? 

Morgana downed the last of her wine and beckoned a servant over to refill it. A slim hand reached out to do the job before the servant reached her. “The men will be gone for a while,” Rowena said. “You should sit with me. We should learn about each other if we are going to be family. Daughter-in-law.” 

If she could have slapped the smile off the little chit’s face without causing an incident, Morgana would have done so. Instead, she smiled and slid into Accolan’s chair so she and Rowena could pretend to whisper together like gossiping girls. 

“You don’t like us, do you?” Rowena asked. 

“I don’t have to like you. I only have to work with you.”

“It is easier to work with people you like. You can’t trust people you don’t know.”

Morgana snorted. “It’s been my experience that you can’t trust people you do know. So tell me, Rowena, why should I trust you?”

“Because I am going to trust you, Morgana. Whether you like me or not. Sorcerers have to work together. There are so few of us, and so many of the common men. Look at them all. But I will tell you who the important men are.” Rowena nodded toward the gathering, at the Saxon men with their wild hair and beards and the men of Rheged who looked polished and sedate in comparison. She pointed out Theoderic, a giant of a man with a braided beard and heavy gold rings on his fingers. “My father has been fighting battles since he was a beardless boy. He does not lose. The finest warriors of Jutland come to fight under his banner because they know he is a great king and a giver of rings. That one,” she pointed to a younger man a hand shorter than Theoderic, “is Sigurd Dragonsbane. He killed the last dragon in Frankia. My father has many champions, but none can claim such a title.”

As though he could hear Rowena talking about him, Sigurd looked back at her and nodded once, slowly. Compared to the blustering men around him, he was cold, his gaze steady and calculating, as though he were figuring out how best to kill the men around him. A chill ran down Morgana’s spine, but she kept her voice level, “Too bad for him there are no dragons in Albion.” 

“Too bad for him, yes. Perhaps he will settle for killing the Pendragon instead. Your King Arthur. He is your brother, is he not? Perhaps Sigurd can win a throne for you.” Rowena smiled. “They say Sigurd has never known fear. They say his sword was made by dwarves and forged in a dragon’s breath. It is called Gram, and only he can wield it.” She pointed at another man standing with Theoderic, one of the other sorcerers, a great bear of a man with a missing eye and a knotwork of designs tattooed on his face. They locked gazes, and suddenly Morgana felt as though fog had settled upon her mind. She shook her head and blinked. Rowena continued, “That is Heolstor. He has been my father’s seer since my father was a boy. It is said that he hung by his feet from an ash tree for nine days to gain the great god Wotan’s favor, and on the last day he put out his own eye. And so Wotan granted him secret knowledge. In the morning, he sends his ravens, Huginn and Muninn across the land to spy out all things, and at night they come back and tell him what they have seen.”

Morgana raised an eyebrow. It sounded almost too fantastic to be real, but the Saxons were wild enough that she could imagine them putting out their own eyes to honor their gods. And hadn’t she heard stories of dragon-forged blades? 

“And what of Grimwulf? Is he a great warrior or seer? Or does his skill lie in keeping your bed warm?”

Rowena laughed, gave her new husband a sidelong glance, and edged closer to Morgana. “He is good at that. Perhaps some night you could join us.”

“I am betrothed to your step-son.”

“Bring him, too,” Rowena’s grin widened.

“Some would call that sinful.”

“Would you?”

Morgana avoided answering by drinking more wine. She’d be drunk soon if she didn’t slow down, but she wouldn’t be the only one. The wine seemed to be flowing even more than such festivities normally called for. Theoderic had brought casks of the stuff, Frankish vintages more potent than they were accustomed to drinking in Rheged. 

“Well, daughter-in-law to be, if you ever find your bed is too cold and lonely for your taste, keep Grimwulf’s in mind. He knows how to keep a woman warm”. Rowena laughed suddenly and gave her a smile she must have thought was innocent. “Oh, poor Morgana. You are willing to believe every terrible thing you hear about us. But we are not so different from you. We are honorable and loyal. And we do not let opportunity pass us by.” She sat back, her wine sloshing over the brim as she raised it to her new husband. It was growing late. Time for the final part of the wedding ceremony. They wouldn’t be truly married until the bride had been bedded 

Urien stood and offered a hand to Rowena. She smiled up at the gray-haired man, looking like a cat that’s caught a particularly plump mouse. Her expression never wavered as she followed Urien toward the door, no matter how loud the cheers or how ribald the jokes grew as she passed. Rowena seemed like a woman who wouldn’t be shamed, no matter how lewd the insinuations that followed her. 

The thought of it all brought a faint smile to Morgana’s lips and she sat back, sipping her wine as the hall grew quieter in the royal couple’s absence. Accolon had moved on from Grimwulf’s company to ingratiate himself with Sigurd. Morgana rolled her eyes and stood. She’d had enough of this. She’d borne witness to the marriage vows, the new queen’s coronation and anointing, and she’d feasted and raised a glass in honor of the newlywed couple. That was enough for one day. Now she could retire to her chambers where she’d find her empty bed. 

She was halfway there when she heard someone close behind her. Turning on a heel, she gathered her magic about her to ward off whatever reveler who was too drunk to realize who she was. But the words died on her lips when she saw Grimwulf standing there, his hands folded in front of himself. “What do you want?” 

“On a night like this, what would any man want from a beautiful woman?” 

Morgana glared up at him, but couldn’t help but appraise his appearance. They’d never been so close, and now she could see his mien wasn’t so wild; his dark hair was neatly combed and tucked behind his ears, his beard trimmed close against his jaw. He had bathed today, and his deep blue tunic was clean and well-fitted, belted over a pair of fine wool trousers and boots. She saw the appeal, but, “I am not in the mood for anyone’s company tonight, be they man or woman.”

“Are you sure? I could offer you protection against the darkness.” He took a step closer and took her hand. He smelled of musk and honey.

“I am a high priestess of the Triple Goddess, Saxon. I don’t need a man’s protection. From darkness or anything else.” She pulled her hand away.

“Ah, but you never know what tomorrow will bring.”

“I have faith that the Goddess will see me through whatever tomorrow brings. I have no need of you, nor of any man.”

Grimwulf laughed. It was high-pitched and eerie. “Gods can be fickle, Priestess. There is one of your kind who could tell you that. And you should be wary of Wotan’s ravens. They fly out in the morning to watch the world, and at night they fly back to Him and tell Him what they have seen. There is nothing that happens under the sun they do not see. You are beautiful. I would not want to waste such beauty.” 

“I’ve heard better flattery from a serving-boy.” Morgana glared up at him. “Say what you will about your gods, Saxon, but you know nothing of our lands. Our gods. There are creatures in Albion that would drive you mad by looking upon them.”

He leaned forward until he was close enough to whisper in her ear. “I look forward to meeting them, Priestess. Then we will see whose magic is stronger. Now you should go tuck yourself into your lonely little bed, and remember to watch out for ravens.” He straightened and grinned again. 

Morgana schooled her expression and squared her shoulders before she turned and strode away with all the arrogance she could muster, but his eerie, unnerving laughter followed her down the hall and into her dreams.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


She woke before dawn with a dream or a warning fading from her mind. She lay awake awhile, warm and drowsy, while the day’s first light began to brighten the room. Outside, the sounds of life began filling the air; the servants going about their work, the first of the night’s celebrants waking to discover how much they have overindulged. There was shouting and laughter, and, now and then, the sound of retching. A raven’s harsh cry sounded from outside her window. 

_Go_ , something inside her warned, and before she realized it she’d thrown the covers back and was dressing in her traveling clothes. She paused halfway through braiding her hair. Was it the Goddess warning her, or her imagination at work? She had a vague memory of Grimwulf’s laugh echoing through her dreams, and his warning-- or promise?-- about ravens lingered in her mind. A deep breath didn’t settle her stomach, nor would the heartiest of breakfasts. She had to leave. Now. Any excuse would do, and as distant as the two of them had grown, Accolon would accept even the weakest of lies. 

With a last glance around, she stuffed her things into her pack and composed her face. If anyone asked, she would tell them the truth as she understood it: She’d had a message from the Goddess and must answer it. Accolon might complain, but he’d abandoned her often enough since her arrival that she no longer cared what he thought. Perhaps she ought to leave behind the ring he’d given her at their betrothal. 

She shook her head and left the ring on her finger. If she truly planned to abandon Accolon, the gold the ring was made with would buy far more than the satisfaction of spurning him. Leaving the ring on her hand, she slung the pack over her shoulder and headed for the stable. 

The rest of the royal household was up by the time she entered the courtyard, which was filled with men both Saxon and Rhegedian, all of them looking up to where King Urien addressed the crowd from the top of a stone stairway, with Theoderic and Rowena by his side. The new queen was crowned with gold to match her hair; the look on her face was exultant. Something about it unnerved Morgana, who slipped back into the shadows along the wall. 

“...and with this marriage, we have made an alliance that makes us stronger than ever before. We will no longer accept the domination and attacks of the rest of Albion’s kingdoms. From this day forward, we will be the force to the reckoned with.” He took Rowena’s hand and raised it high. “Rheged! Hail your new queen!”

“Hail!” The men shouted. The courtyard rang with the jubilant sound as the men of Rheged celebrated the new alliance and the future victory they were certain of. 

But something was wrong. Morgana felt it shiver down her spine, tasted the tang of foreboding on the back of her tongue. She drew away toward the door. The Saxons’ hands rested on the hilts of their belt knives. They were alert as wolves on the hunt; the men of Rheged were bleary-eyed and still giddy from the night’s celebration. Rowena’s smile had changed from exultant to predatory. 

Accolon appeared in front of her with a stupid grin on his face. His hand was heavy on her shoulder. “Now we can be married, and all of Albion will be ours for that taking.” 

She pushed his hand away. “I have to go. You should leave, too.”

His brow furrowed. “Why would I leave today, of all days? We’re ascendant.”

Morgana stepped back and looked up at Urien and Rowena. At the besotted look on the gray-bearded king’s face and the sly smile on the new queen’s. 

She saw what was coming even before it happened, and yet her senses were suddenly too clouded to cry out in warning. 

Theoderic drew his dagger and shoved it to the hilt into Urien’s throat, bathing Rowena in a spray of blood. Choking on his last breaths, Urien fell to his knees then rolled limply down the stairs. 

Silence fell for the space of a breath, then the Saxons roared and drew their blades as one, falling on the noblemen of Rheged who were still too drunk or too shocked to raise a hand in their own defense as the Saxons slaughtered them like sheep, cutting them down right and left until the paving stones were slick with blood and the air was filled with the cries of dying men. 

To his credit, Accolon stood tall like the warrior he was, and though he had nothing but a dagger in his hand, he fended off two Saxons, keeping himself between Morgana and the fray, snarling like a cornered wolf and fighting as viciously. A brave choice. A futile choice, in the end, for Sigurd stepped up to challenge him, the dragon-forged sword in his hand and a wild grin of battle on his blood-spattered face, his eyes shining as though lit with hellfire.

Accolon roared a challenge and threw himself at Sigurd, the dagger flashing in the pale morning light. One, twice he slashed, and Sigurd dodged away like he faced a little boy with a stick, then he batted Accolon’s dagger away. He raised his sword and with an easy swing, like it was no more difficult than cutting blossoms off dandelions, he cut Accolon’s head from his shoulders. 

Morgana flinched away from the spray of the blood and the sight of the falling body, but the ferric taste of blood landed on her tongue, its stink filling her nose. She stumbled backward, gagging. Then a hand caught her by the throat and shoved her against the wall. 

Sigurd stood over her, his pale blue eyes bright against the blood and gore on his face. The white flash of his crazed smile was startling. He leaned close, his lips nearly brushing her cheek as he breathed deep, smelling her perfume and her fear. “You should be afraid,” he whispered.

Her vision was growing gray when he leaned back and reversed his grip on his sword, raising it as though he meant to run her through. Morgana couldn't take her eyes off the bloody blade, couldn’t think of a single spell that would save her.

Magic could heal a multitude of injuries with time. As long as they weren’t lethal, they would knit and heal and fade. But what would a magic sword do to her? Her gasp sounded like a sob.

Sigurd stopped halfway through the motion, laughing. He lowered the blade. “There’s no sport in killing a woman like this. I will spare you. Today.” He leaned in again to whisper in her ear. “Run away, little witch,” he breathed, then shoved her toward the courtyard’s door. 

Without a glance back, Morgana fled, gathering enough of her wits about her to magically shove people and bodies out of her way while the slaughter continued behind her. 

The stables were empty of people, the workers there having fled to join the fight or hide until it was over. But no matter. She knew where her horse, Tywyll, was. She wrenched the door open, pausing long enough to get a bit and bridle in place and fasten the reins. She left the saddle behind.

The city gates stood open as they approached, the guards dead or dying. Morgana kicked Tywyll to a gallop and held on for dear life, wondering if she would feel the sting of an arrow in the back before they made it to the trees. 

No arrow came. From the city, there was nothing but the fading sounds of fighting as Rheged fell to the Saxons. 

No wonder Rowena had worn that cat-like smile all night. She’d known what was coming. She’d been wedded and bedded, crowned and anointed-- made queen of Rheged in the eyes of men and gods, her crown bought and paid for at the price of a single night with an aging man her father would murder in the morning, along with the heir to the throne and every nobleman that had come to witness the spectacle. 

Morgana pulled Tywyll to a halt and slid off his back to retch in the weeds by the road. No wonder Grimwulf had offered her protection. He had known, too. And by spurning him, she’d made herself a Saxon enemy. 

She shook her head and wiped her mouth. They would have been her enemies anyway. Hadn’t she told Yver the Saxons couldn’t be trusted? They’d proven her right. She ran her tongue over her teeth and spat.

“Well,” she said as she took up Tywyll’s reins and patted the horse’s neck. “We need to get away from here, don’t we?” Their tracks were visible in the soft earth. If Sigurd or Grimwulf had a mind to follow her, they could so with ease. She had to leave Rheged, but without leaving tracks. 

That meant traveling by wind, which she didn’t enjoy. The Wind of Fate, Morgause had once called it. A means of escape, yes, but the wind often took you where it wanted you to go, not where you wanted to be. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

“We’ll just have to be brave, won’t we?” she whispered to Tywyll. The horse snorted in response. 

She led him to a log she could use to climb onto his back, then held the reins tight as she closed her eyes and whispered the words of the spell. Then the winds spun around her, howling and bitterly cold, pulling her into the unknown. 

  
  


* * *

When Morgana opened her eyes again, she was still on Tywyll’s back, though the horse danced nervously to one side as the winds died down. She clung to him and wound her fingers into his mane, just in case. When she had calmed herself and the horse she looked around to find out where fate had brought her. 

She was on a hillside overlooking a quiet village tucked away in a valley next to a wide river. The low buildings hid under trees and or were dug into the hillside. No smoke rose from cookfires, no boats stopped here on their way downstream. The forest hadn’t been cleared. If the people who lived there could make themselves invisible, they would, for the little town of Helva had been under threat for years.

“Why here?” Morgana mused aloud, though the answer was plain when she thought it over. Helva had no walls, and it was within a day’s march of Rheged. If the Saxons wanted to either forcibly recruit new sorcerers or annihilate them, the little town wouldn’t stand a chance. Their best hope of survival would be to flee. 

She loosened her white-knuckled grip on the reins and nudged Tywyll forward. His long strides ate up the distance, and it wasn’t long before they reached the village’s edge and the townsfolk began to gather, gaping at her like she was some kind of monster. Then she remembered. Her face was spattered and smeared with blood, now dried and cracking. She swallowed against the road dust and straightened her back. “Rheged has fallen to the Saxons. Their new queen is a sorceress, and she has powerful sorcerers aiding her. Her father, Theoderic, leads an army that could kill all of you and burn this place to the ground without a second thought. They’ve already murdered King Urien and his son. If I were you, I would flee this place.”

The silence held for a moment, then everyone spoke at once, a hubbub of panicked voices all crying out to be heard and answered first. But there was one question asked over and over again: “Where can we go that’s safe?”

Morgana waited a moment, then raised a hand to silence the crowd. “Go to the Isle of the Blessed. Your kindred are already there and rebuilding. If you make yourself useful, you will find welcome there.”

A thoughtful silence ensued, then a man shouted, “Who are you to guarantee that?”

She gave the crowd a long, lazy look and locked eyes with the man. “I am Morgana Pendragon, Priestess of the Triple Goddess and ruler of the Isle of the Blessed. Join me there, and you will find as much safety as those of our kind will ever have in this world.”

A babble of voices met this suggestion, but Morgana was suddenly too tired to pay attention or answer them. She nudged Tywyll into a sedate walk that scattered the people; some fled to their homes, while others followed. Only one offered her a place to rest, and she followed the woman to a house cluttered with plants and herbs hung up to dry. Some sort of healer who brought Morgana water to wash the blood off her face and a chair in which to rest. 

“Is there anything else you need, Mistress?” the woman asked timidly.

“No. Leave me,” Morgana said absently, staring at the shadows as they crept across the floor. She needed time to decide what to do next and who her allies were. And who her allies might be in the future. Of the five kingdoms, four were free. Deorham, Amata, Nemeth. And Camelot. 

There had been a prophecy, hadn’t there? Of old powers rising once more and fractured alliances being reforged to make way for the Once and Future King. United, they might stand a chance against the Saxons. Failure meant the fall of Albion. A true prophecy, granted to her by the Goddess Herself. She would ignore it at her own peril. 

The afternoon sun was lowering in the sky before Morgana stirred and stepped outside. The healer was waiting, seated on a tree stump, spinning thread on a drop spindle. “Mistress?”

“Are the people preparing to leave?”

“Some are. Some are too stubborn to leave. Others are tired of running.”

Morgana nodded. “I will go ahead and prepare the way for them. There are things I need to do.”

Whatever the healer said in response was lost on Morgana as she cast a baleful look at the sky, as though the Goddess were looking down at her and laughing. She had spent so long nurturing her alliance with Rheged, only to have its royal family destroyed in a single morning. It wasn't the people she missed, though. Only the strength they had given her. Poor Accolon. There was no one left to mourn him. What love or lust she had felt for him had drained away long ago. And now she needed allies. Her people needed allies, or they would be wiped out.

There was nothing for it. She would have to make amends with her little brother. And with Merlin.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“So Elin, she says to me, ‘I don’t care if you’re a lord of Camelot, you’re not coming in here stinking of sea wrack and old fish, so you can turn right around and get back to where you came from until you’ve had a bath with good soap’. So I say, ‘Elin, your father’s a fisherman. He smells like fish as much as I do, and you don’t send him off to get a bath before you let him in.’” 

Sir Balin sent a prayer for patience heavenward as he tied a length of rope off and firmly reminded himself that the rope was for the boat, not for throttling his twin brother. Their mother would be upset if he came home without Balan, so no matter how much he wished for silence he was going to have to keep praying. And hope that someday, the king would send him to a post far, far away and send Balan to the point farthest from that.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Do I need to? You’ve had as much luck with Elin as you had riding Da’s destrier when we were ten, and if you don’t leave her alone, you’ll get worse from her than the broken arm the horse gave you.”

“But that’s part of the challenge!” Balan gave him a stupid grin.

Balin rolled his eyes. “Then don’t come crying to me if she uses that knife of hers on your bits. I’ve been telling you it’s a bad idea since the moment you laid eyes on her.”

“Just because she thinks you have a face like a bag of frogs doesn’t mean she’s not secretly keen on me.”

“We have the same face, you halfwit. If she thinks I’m ugly as sin, she thinks the same of you. Worse, since you keep darkening her doorstep. And if you don’t shut up about it, I’m going to knock you upside the head, row you out to the old crannog, and leave you there.” Balin tossed his pack into the boat with extra force, as though illustrating his ability to knock sense into thick skulls.

Balan put a hand on his hip. “You have no sense of adventure.”

“My sense of adventure doesn’t involve being gutted by an angry fishwife.”

“Elin is not a fishwife. She’s not married.”

“And she’ll make sure you never are. Now leave her alone and stop yapping about her.” Balin straightened and rubbed the back of his neck, wincing when his back cracked. Twilight was almost upon them. Time for them to leave their boat to the Isle of the Blessed behind and return to the shack where they’d been living since last autumn, after the queen had sent the two of them and Sir Dagonet to this godforsaken outpost to watch over an eerie island inhabited by witches, sorcerers, and the saints only knew what else. At least the Lady Morgana had only passed through a few times on her way in and out, never speaking a word and doing nothing more than giving them the required coin for her passage. 

They’d sent word back to Camelot about those instances. He hoped the king gleaned something more than, ‘Morgana left the Isle on such and such day and returned a fortnight later’, because that was the only thing they could report, aside from a few more refugees appearing out of the fog to seek passage to the Isle.

“You’re no fun,” Balan said, yawning as he lashed the oars together and put them away in the bottom of the boat for the night. “Do you suppose Dag left the fire burning for us this time? It’s an awfully wet day to have to relight it.”

“He probably put it out this morning. He was going out to get some new wood for this thing,” Balin said, patting the boat’s hull where the wood was beginning to warp. “He’s not about to leave a fire going so he can burn down--”

“Hush! Do you hear that?” Balan stood up straight, his eyes on the fog to the north. “Sounds like a horse coming this way.”

“Or someone running to catch us before we leave. Fog makes sounds move strangely.”

“I don’t think it’s that. I think…”

Whatever he thought was lost, for a dark shape coalesced in the distance, too large to be a single person. They waited, tense and unmoving as the shape grew larger, and the muffled sounds became the thudding of hoofbeats in the sand. 

The fog curled around the rider, hiding the identity until she was altogether too close for comfort, her cold beauty dazzling Balin as it always did. 

Lady Morgana.

Balin swallowed at the knot that had suddenly formed in his throat. “M’lady. D’you need passage to the Isle?”

She looked him up and down, then nodded once. “I do. And then I need you to deliver a message to your master.”

Balan tensed beside him. Balin licked his lips to answer, “What master, M’lady?”

Morgana gave him a withering look. “Don’t play the fool, Sir Balin. The events of the world are moving too quickly for that. I have a letter for my little brother, and you will deliver it with all due haste. Rheged has fallen to the Saxons.”


	2. Chapter 2

The trouble with royal gifts, Gwaine had learned long ago, was that they came with obligations. Endless and uncomfortable obligations. So he was not entirely sure why he was voluntarily kneeling before Arthur to accept a royal gift within sight of the queen, privy council, and altogether too many members of Camelot’s nobility.

And Linnet. He caught sight of her smiling at him, her eyes shining, staring at him like he was the only other one in the great hall.

Yes, there was the reason he was accepting the royal wedding gift and everything it entailed. A knight earned a comfortable living, but there were armor and weapons to maintain, horses to keep and feed, and his well-being to look after. And though he had comfortable-- if small-- chambers within the castle, it wasn’t enough to keep Linnet in the sort of comfort she was accustomed to. 

Hence the gift of land. 

“To you, Sir Gwaine, I grant the manor of Gywar to be yours and your descendants’ in perpetuity. Its lands and incomes-- and its inherent responsibilities shall be yours from this day forth. Its people will be as servants to you, and in turn, you will be a protector to them. Do you accept this solemn duty?” Arthur said, obviously holding back a grin.

Gwaine resisted the urge to make a joke to ease his nerves and held his hands up to accept the charter. “I will.”

“Then rise, Sir Gwaine of Gywar, and may your lands be blessed.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” He rose and bowed, gritting his teeth at the desultory applause and keeping his eyes on Linnet-- her smile was reassuring-- until he could slip away from the glare of the court and stand next to Merlin. The sorcerer stood in an out of the way shadow, propping up a pillar as he watched the proceedings, content to stay out of the thick of things. Though if Gwaine were being honest, Merlin looked too tired to be in the middle of it all.

“Gwaine of Gywar. It has a nice ring to it,” Merlin said under his breath, a faint smile pulling at his lips.

“Did you put him up to this?” Gwaine said just as quietly, tapping Merlin’s arm with the rolled-up parchment.

“The manor? No. Most of the knights have some sort of inheritance to keep their families comfortable. But you and Lancelot and others don’t. Besides. Arthur couldn’t stint you without risking an insult to Linnet’s father for not granting his son-in-law lands to keep his daughter in fine clothes and warm rooms. It’s all politics. Gywar’s been part of Arthur’s holdings for a few years, ever since the last vassal died of a fever.”

“I never wanted this sort of responsibility.”

Merlin half-turned to regard him for a moment, then smiled. “Think of it as a chance to provide the people of Gywar the sort of protection your old king denied your family.”

Gwaine’s jaw dropped open, but he had nothing to say and so snapped it shut. A wry smile twisted his lips. “Do you always know exactly what to say to get people to do what you want them to do?”

“Now and then,” Merlin said. His smile faded. “But it’s no less than you’ve earned. You’ll just have to accept it.”

“Hm. And what about you? Are you going to get what you’ve earned?”

Merlin’s gaze went distant, and a strange expression passed across his face. One Gwaine couldn’t read. “I have what I want. I’m not sure I want what I’ve earned.”

“You’re speaking in riddles again."

The sorcerer gave him a faint smile in response. Then he tilted his head, his gaze going distant as though he was listening for something far away. 

“Is everything alright?”

“Everything? No. But this? We’ll find out soon enough.” Merlin pressed his fingers to his temples, then sighed and let his hand fall to his side. “What are you going to do with this new manor of yours?”

Gwaine eyed him, then shrugged. If Merlin had decided he wasn’t going to talk about something, wild horses couldn’t drag it out of him. “Not sure. I don’t know how to manage something like that. Do you get a steward to do that? Leon has a steward, doesn’t he?”

“You could do that. Or Linnet could manage it.”

“She could do that?” Gwaine asked softly, glancing across at Linnet, where she stood attentively at Guinevere’s side. If she noticed his glance she ignored him, concentrating instead on the merchant complaining to the king about the state of the roads. “Would she want to do that? She’d had to leave the city. Wouldn’t she prefer to stay here?”

“There’s a simple way to find out,” Merlin said. “You could ask her.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” Gwaine smirked, but would it be so easy all that? Linnet had already been shuffled off to one noble house after another since she was a girl. It had been pure chance-- and Lady Drusilla-- that brought her to the court of Camelot. Now that she had settled into being a maid of honor to the queen, would she want to settle down in some drafty old manor? Best to approach the matter carefully, and with suggestions for capable stewards already in mind. 

A side door opened and Leon entered, his steps quick as he approached Arthur to whisper something in the king’s ear. Arthur’s eyes shuttered. Gwaine knew that look. He didn’t like that look. It only crossed Arthur’s face when something bad had happened. 

The audiences ended abruptly after that, and the complaining plaintiffs filed out, muttering about being summarily tossed out, though Gwaine felt little sympathy for them. They would only have to wait another few days to have their complaints heard, while whatever news had arrived would likely send the knights on a mission to some godforsaken place filled with mud and sheep. 

Once the excess nobles and merchants were gone and the doors shut behind them, Leon went back to the door he’d entered from and returned with a pair of scruffy, travel-stained men who looked like they should have gotten a good feeding and a proper dousing with hot water and soap before being brought anywhere near the castle. They must have been the bearer of the bad news.

The twin messengers approached the throne with identical bows. “Majesty,” they muttered as one.

“Sir Balin. Sir Balan.” Arthur gestured for them to rise. “I thought you were meant to be watching over the Isle of the Blessed. Did it come tumbling down, or is Morgana on the march?”

“Neither, Sire. Though, the Lady Morgana had a look like a thundercloud when she walked up to us. But it didn’t seem to have anything to do with us. Or at least, not us in particular,” one twin said.

The other glared at his brother. “She recognized us, Sire. Came right up to us and called me by name-- the right one. Then she commanded us to bring you this message.” He held out a rolled parchment.

“And she did nothing else after addressing you?” Arthur motioned for Merlin to come over and take the scroll. Probably to check for magical traps. Who knew what Morgana was capable of? But it must have been free from traps, for Merlin quickly handed it to the king.

“Nothing at all. Just demanded we take her across to the Isle. With her horse. At twilight. In the fog.” 

“That was unusual?” Arthur asked offhandedly, his eyes on the unrolled parchment in his hands. His brow furrowed as he read.

“If the light’s failing when someone arrives, they take shelter in the town half a mile from the ferry. There are rocks a boat can catch on, especially when the tide’s low,” the second twin said. “But we made it across and back again, safe as houses. Lady Morgana seemed distracted on the way out. I would have thought she’d forgotten we were there if she hadn’t paid us.”

Arthur seemed distracted, too. The lines on his brow deepened as his eyes roved over the letter again. “She had her reasons,” he said faintly as he handed the letter to Leon. “Rheged has fallen to the Saxons. It seems King Urien married a Saxon princess. The Saxon King Theodoric demanded she be crowned and anointed on the wedding day, and the next morning Theoderic murdered Urien and ordered his warriors to slaughter Prince Accolon and whatever nobles and knights were still there. There’s no one of noble blood left who can mount a resistance to the Saxons.”

“Now they’re completely free to bring over as many warriors as they want,” Leon muttered. “And-- I guess she’s the queen-- Rowena. She’s a sorcerer.”

Most of the eyes in the room went to Merlin, who slowly shook his head like he was trying to wake himself up. “I’ve seen nothing of any of this. I don’t know anything about the Saxons’ magic.” In the state he was in, Gwaine wondered if the sorcerer would be able to tell him his name by nightfall. He looked thin and tired enough that a stiff breeze might blow him over. He’d been like that since Gaius’s death three weeks earlier. The cloud of grief had yet to lift. 

“We’ll need to know something of their movements, now that we don’t even have Urien to hold them back.”

“Every spy we’ve sent has disappeared soon after crossing the border,” Leon said. He handed the letter to Merlin. 

“We’ll give thought to it,” Arthur said, his gaze flicking to Merlin, then away again so quickly Gwaine wondered if he’d imagined it. Of course, the sorcerer’s magic was the obvious answer. Or would have been, if Merlin’s wits weren’t so foggy. “We'll find a way. The Saxons might have victory today, but these are our lands. We will outlast them, whatever it takes.”

There were exclamations of agreements all around; Arthur had the kind of charisma that made it easy for men to agree with him on the spot. Even Gwaine had to admit that. Ask them again in six months and it might be a different story. 

As long as the Saxons didn’t strike in the next week, though, Gwaine was willing to leave off thinking about them. He was getting married. Married. Him. To Linnet. It was still difficult to comprehend sometimes. 

Arthur seemed to be thinking the same thing, for he gave Gwaine a crooked grin. “Before we face the Saxons, though, we have a celebration to think about. Camelot’s most notorious bachelor will soon be a bachelor no more.”

There were chuckles at that, though one of the scruffy twins looked affronted. “I thought I was the most notorious bachelor in Camelot!”

“You’re only notorious for your smell. You still stink of old fish,” the other twin said. 

“No worse than you. At least I know where to find the good soap.”

“Then you can ride back to the seaside and tell Elin that. I’m sure she’ll be impressed. Right before she guts you for darkening her doorstep again.”

“Unless either of you has something to add to your report,” Arthur broke in before the argument grew heated, “You’re all dismissed. Gwaine, you should make plans to ride out to your new manor as soon as possible. Remember to take Linnet with you. I’m sure she’ll have her ideas of what to do with the place. Balin and Balan, I want to speak with you more about your time at the Isle. Leon, come with me. Merlin,” he paused and cast a critical eye over the sorcerer. “Get some rest.”

How much did it say about Merlin’s state of mind that he made no objections? He merely handed Morgana’s letter back to Leon and drifted toward the door and the long walk back to his chambers. 

Gwaine followed a step behind, and the last thing he heard from the twin knights before the great doors closed was the curious question, “What’d you do with your sorcerer? Dress a scarecrow in his clothes? He looks awful...

* * *

  
  


The day of the wedding dawned as clear and bright as anyone could have hoped for. Normally decked out with the symbols of the Pendragon family’s power and lineage, the great hall was overflowing with every hue Percival could imagine. Garlands of bluebells and primroses draped the pillars, and bright tapestries had been hung just for the occasion. And it seemed that half the women of the city were there, their gowns dazzling his eyes with their brilliant hues. He hadn’t known cloth could be dyed such vibrant colors until he’d found himself in the court of Camelot. The bride and her attendants shone the brightest, as they were meant to do. Linnet had a crown of white and pink roses wound into her hair, and in her complicated pale green gown, she outshone the queen. It was her wedding. It was allowed. 

Guinevere had traded her jeweled crown for one of forget-me-nots; Percival wasn’t sure if there was a message intended with that. Elayne had a coronet of daisies, and Niniane's hair was braided with purple fairy bells. A strange choice, but then, Niniane was a strange young woman. And besides. What did he know about women’s fashion? Were they born with the ability to braid flowers into their hair, or did they spend their girlhoods practicing? And how long did it take to learn to walk in those little shoes with those long skirts? Surely women were born with the kind of grace a man like him could only imagine. 

His musings on fashion were cast aside by the ceremony itself, though, for Father Gildas had a long and droning sermon about love and duty and the responsibilities of wives to their husbands. And sin, because what priest didn’t have something to say about that? Fortunately for everyone, Gildas kept that part short, and only shot Merlin one disapproving look. Arthur had probably talked to him about that; Merlin might be barred from attending mass or even walking into a church or monastery, but he couldn’t be banned from attending his friend’s wedding in the king’s hall. 

Good. Merlin had looked like death warmed over in the past couple of weeks. He needed something to brighten his spirits, and if the colors and smiles around him couldn’t do it, Percival didn’t know what would. The sorcerer looked like half a ghost sometimes, like he’d walk into a sunbeam one of these days and disappear entirely.

A wave of quiet laughter interrupted his musings. Gwaine was blushing and looking chagrined about something, but whatever he’d done had only made Linnet’s smile brighter. The vows continued, with Gildas intoning something in Latin, and the couple replying with the phrases they had rehearsed.

“I, Gwaine of Gywar, take the Lady Linnet to my wedded wife, to have and to hold at bed and at board, for fairer for fouler, for better for worse, in sickness and in health, till death us do part. And thereto I plight thee my troth.” His voice shook while Linnet’s was steady, though neither trembled as they set the golden rings upon each other’s fingers, looking at each other in wonderment, as though no one else in the world mattered.

Percival felt a faint pang of envy, though he wished nothing but joy for the newly-wedded pair. Would he find such a love someday? He hoped so, though in the rarefied circles he moved in these days, it was difficult to imagine some noble lady falling in love with a woodcutter’s son. But he could dream and he could hope. And even before all of that, there was a feast to enjoy.

  
  


* * *

“How does it feel to be a married man?” Percival clapped a hand to Gwaine’s shoulder and grinned at the bewildered smile that spread across his face at the question. 

“I don’t know yet,” Gwaine said as he took the offered cup of wine, held it up in a toast, then took a long drink. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

Laughing, Percival finished off his wine and looked around, half wondering if his dizziness was a result of the drink or from the unreality of where he stood. He’d come a long way from that thatched cottage in the rough hills of Rheged. If his mother could have seen him now, she wouldn’t recognize him. Nor would his father or his brothers.

A pang of sadness washed over him at the thought of his family, long lost. He frowned into his wine glass and wished there was more in it. Tonight, of all nights, was not the time to reminisce about his dead family. Fortunately, someone shoved a new, full glass into his hands. 

“That’s not the sort of look a man should have on his face on a night like this,” Leon said brightly. “But you,” he reached over and grabbed the nearly-full cup out of Gwaine’s hands, “you should be drinking less, my friend. Or else your new bride will have your head in the morning.”

“Or less than that, if you take my meaning.” Percival waggled his eyebrows over the rim of his cup. 

For a moment, Gwaine looked like he was about to say something, then he snapped his mouth shut. “Yeah, best not to argue that point.”

Leon snorted. “I think Linnet will appreciate having a sober husband on her wedding night more than you’ll appreciate having more wine. Where is she, anyway?”

“The queen and her ladies kidnapped her for some sort of women-only dance. They’re over there.” Gwaine waved to the circle of women in the middle of the hall, their arms linked and bright slippers flashing as they performed the steps, a complicated set of kicks and hops that went by so quickly Percival could hardly keep up with them. Where did they learn such things? And who came up with them in the first place? They were all flushed and laughing by the time the music ended, and Guinevere and her ladies were smoothing their skirts and tucking the flowers back into their hair.

Gwaine held his hand out to his new bride and spun her about, then held her close. They kissed, to the cheers of those who saw them. 

“To the new bride and groom!” Arthur said, raising a glass to Gwaine and Linnet as he and Guinevere joined the circle. “And for once, everyone in this room is happy. We should have weddings more often,” he said lightly.

“Don’t look at me,” Leon said.

“Or me,” Lancelot chimed in as he slipped into the circle. Elayne came in next to him. Right next to him. She was practically on his arm. Percival glanced at Arthur, who was trying not to smirk. 

“Of course not.”

“Don’t look at me, either,” Percival said. “I don’t know how to dance.”

“I could teach you!” That was Niniane, who squeezed in next to Linnet. Alone. Where was Merlin? “Linnet’s been teaching me all sorts of new steps. I think I have them all figured out. And even if I haven’t, it’ll be fun!” 

“Thanks, but no.” He glanced around, looking for help from one of the others. They just grinned back at him. 

“Oh, don’t worry. Merlin wouldn’t mind,” Her eyes were bright and guileless.

“It’s not that. I’m afraid I’d step on your foot and break it to bits.” He was a big man, and she was so delicate, like a little bird. He was almost afraid to take her hand lest he crush it by mistake. 

“You’re no fun,” she scoffed. 

“Where is Merlin, anyway?” Arthur asked.

“He went to get some air. He said all this,” Niniane waved her hand at the room in general, “was making his head hurt. I’m sorry, Gwaine. He doesn’t want to spoil the fun, but I don’t think he’s up to spending all night at a grand celebration like this.”

Gwaine’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Not from anger at Merlin leaving early. None of them would begrudge the sorcerer his sensitivities. Gwaine was concerned and trying not to show it. “I’m sure we can find a way for him to pay us back.”

“Maybe he can plant a garden for us,” Linnet said, casting Niniane a sidelong glance. The Druid snorted with laughter and covered her mouth with her hand. How did women communicate merely by looking at one another like that? 

“If you want a garden, we’ll have a garden,” Gwaine said. 

Linnet and Niniane burst into laughter. Guinevere looked from one to the other and suddenly started laughing, too. Of the women in the circle, only Elayne looked as baffled as the men. 

“Is there something we should know about?” Arthur asked.

“No, not at all,” Guinevere said once she’d gotten her giggles under control. She patted Arthur on the arm. “It’s a woman thing. Nothing you need to worry about.”

That was the signal for all the men to leave off with their admittedly mild interrogation. Whatever the ‘woman thing’ was, none of them wanted to hear more. Perhaps Merlin could have interpreted it for them. Maybe they didn’t want to know at all. 

“On that note, I think I’ll step out for a bit of fresh air before someone tricks me into torturing them with my dancing,” Percival said. He handed his cup off to a passing servant and nodded to Arthur and Guinevere before bowing out, waving off the women’s pleas for him to stay. He was going to come back. Once he’d had a chance to breathe some cooler air and shrug off the feeling that he didn’t belong. Five years ago he’d been a woodsman living in a dark cottage in the forest. Now he was attending noble weddings and hobnobbing with a king. The course of his life had turned in the most unexpected ways, and there were times he still expected to wake up from this color-drenched dream to find himself looking at the greens and browns of his old life. 

Outside the great hall, it was cooler and quieter. And less colorful, though Percival was willing to trade the color for the other two things. Wine, women, and song were good and all, but it was possible to have too much of a good thing. What he wanted now was a bit of peace. 

He wasn’t going to find it here, though. Not with servants buzzing in and out like bees in a garden, and inebriated young nobles bumbling about, giddy with too much wine and rich food. They’d be sorry about both in the morning, but it wasn’t within Percival’s purview to warn them against overindulging. 

He wandered down the hall in the opposite direction of echoing laughter. It was darker. Night had fallen, and with only a thin sliver of the waning moon showing in the sky, there were only lamps and torches to light his way. These halls had grown familiar in the past few years, though. Another strange turn in his life. Who would have thought a woodcutter’s son would have ended up so familiar with the corridors of a grand castle like Camelot’s? 

Grinning, he turned down a narrower corridor that would lead him to a grand set of windows overlooking the courtyard. It provided a brilliant view of the city and was a little too far from the great hall for some drunken lord and lady to make it there for some amorous assignation. 

Someone was already there when Percival arrived, though. In the faint light, he saw the dark shape of a man hunched on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, his face buried in his hands. “Are you alright, sir?” 

“I’m fine,” came the faint reply. “I needed some air.”

He looked closer, recognizing the silvery dragons embroidered on the man’s sleeves. “Merlin? You don’t look alright.” Percival grabbed a candle and tilted Merlin’s chin up. The sorcerer was pale and shaking, his pupils so wide there was hardly any blue left in them. “You are not alright. I should get you to-- to Blaise.” 

“No need for that. I’ll be fine. Just needed some air,” Merlin said faintly, pulling away from Percival’s grasp and resting his head against the wall. 

“You could be two steps from death and you’d still be saying that,” Percival muttered. “You’re always trying to help everyone else and never helping yourself. I suppose you’re too muddled to tell me what you’re sick with, or what I should do now.”

“I’ll be fine. Go back to dancing with the others.”

“When you can look me straight in the eye, then you can tell me what to do.” He put a hand to Merlin’s forehead; healers always seemed to check for fever, but Merlin didn’t feel warm. “Right now, I’m going to send for Blaise and then get you to bed.”

Merlin brow creased. “You know I don’t think of you like that,” he mumbled.

Percival huffed a laugh. “Nor I, you. Stay here, alright? No need for you to go wandering about before I get back. I’m going to find a guard or someone who will go and get Blaise. Then I’ll come back and help you get up to your room.”

“I’m fine.”

“In a pig’s eye. Now stay here. I won’t be long.” He gave Merlin a stern glance and jogged back to where he’d last seen a guard stationed. The man was still there, looking bored until he saw Percival, a head taller and twice again as wide, rushing toward him. He clutched his pollax like he expected an attack, and barely relaxed when Percival paused and flashed a quick smile. “I need you or someone reliable to fetch Blaise and send him up to Merlin’s chambers. Merlin’s ill.”

The guard blanched at the mention of Merlin but mastered himself in a moment. “Yessir, I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you,” Percival said, though he waited a moment to make sure his order had been followed before he hurried back to Merlin.

The sorcerer was right where he’d left him, head resting against the wall and tilted like he was listening for something. His eyes were wide and unfocused, just as they had been when he’d been blinded. “Merlin?”

“I still can’t hear them. I suppose I never will again. It’s strange, not hearing them. But they’re gone. I don’t even hear the wings now.” Merlin blinked and turned his glassy gaze on Percival. “Can you hear your god, or is there only silence when you pray?”

A shiver ran down his spine. He should have been used to Merlin’s uncanniness by now, the strange questions and assertions that seemed to come from nowhere. But those were always directed at Arthur. Witnessing the uncanny, having it slip past you like a will-o’-the-wisp-- that was something you could shrug off and pretend you hadn’t seen when the bright light of day came back around. But to have the uncanny look you in the eye and ask if you heard God when you prayed… What could someone like him say to that? “I’m just a simple man, Merlin.”

“There’s more to you than you let on. Like all the others.” Merlin smiled. His eyes drifted shut.

“Hey! Come on, now. Wake up. You are gravely mistaken if you think I”m carrying you up all those stairs.” He patted Merlin on the cheek until his eyes opened again. “Come on. Up you get. It’s just a few hallways and some stairs, and then you can have some rest.” He draped Merlin’s arm around his shoulder and pulled him upright, stooping to match the sorcerer’s lesser height. 

They encountered few people on the way upstairs- a couple of guards, some servants, all of whom smirked upon seeing the wavering sorcerer. Given the celebration going on below, they must have assumed Merlin was drunk. Percival wished that was the case, but he’d seen Merlin drunk before, and this wasn’t that. Drunken Merlin grinned and giggled like a girl. It was a hilarious sight he’d only seen once, and wished could happen again sometime. Sober Merlin was too somber by half, though God knew he had plenty of reasons to be so. 

They were halfway up the stairs to Merlin’s chambers when the sorcerer made a soft noise and slithered out of his grasp. Percival reached for him, grabbing an arm before Merlin could tumble back downstairs. He hauled him into the lamplight and tilted his chin up. “You look awful,” he muttered. 

“Do I?” Merlin asked faintly. He was breathing hard, like he’d been running for hours, not climbing a flight of stairs, and his face was white as chalk. 

“Yes. Like you’re about to faint. Don’t do that to me, alright? We just need to get you upstairs and wait for Blaise. Can you stay awake long enough for that?”

Merlin looked up at him, his eyes still wide and glassy. “I saw her in my dreams again. She had another warning. Or the same one. Couldn’t tell…”

“Who had a warning?” 

“Freya.”

“Who’s Freya?”

“A girl I...” Merlin’s eyes started to roll back into his head. His head lolled to the side. 

“Merlin! Hey! Don’t you go and faint on me.” Percival patted his cheek until his eyes fluttered open. “You’re not well. I’m not going to make you walk up the rest of the stairs, alright? I’m going to carry you up to your room, and then we’ll wait for Blaise, and he’ll figure out what’s wrong with you and give you something to make you feel better. And you can tell me about Freya while we wait.”  He scooped Merlin up, holding the sorcerer close against his chest, his weight no worse than carrying a load of firewood through the forest. 

“So this Freya. What was she like? Was she beautiful?”

“Beautiful? Yes,” Merlin sighed. “And cursed.”

“Cursed, huh? That’s rough. Did you find a way to get rid of it?”

They were nearly to Merlin’s door when he finally answered. “No. She died.”

“Oh.” Percival’s smile faded. He should have expected the tragic ending. “I’m sorry.”

Merlin made a sound that might have been an acknowledgment before he stretched out a trembling hand to the door. The latch clicked and the door swung open, creaking on its old hinges. “Thanks for that,” Percival muttered. “Could you give me some light? It’s a bit dark in here.” 

Merlin was silent, though, and no light appeared. Percival slowed and felt his way through the room, slipping past the table, past chairs and shelves, ducking when his head brushed against bundles of dried plants hanging from the ceiling. He edged past the wood screen and banged his shin against the bed. He winced and muttered a curse, but if Merlin noticed he said nothing. Percival couldn’t even tell if he was still awake until he settled the sorcerer against the pillows. “You still with me? Merlin?”

The reply was a long time in coming, but the rasping breaths assured him that Merlin was, at the very least, still alive. “Where are we?”

“Your rooms, Merlin. I haven’t lit a fire yet, so unless you’re willing to help me out with the candles…” He glanced around, not expecting the sorcerer to catch the line of his thought until a single candle flared into life. “Thanks for that.” 

He rose and tugged the candle out of its holder and lit the others before arranging a couple of chunks of wood and some dried grass over the embers in the hearth, all the while keeping up a stream of banter and light-hearted questions Merlin barely answered. 

“You know you worry the hell out of everyone sometimes?” Percival shook his head as he sat down at the bedside and drew a blanket over Merlin’s shivering form. “You frighten us, too. Even Arthur. He doesn’t hide it as well as he thinks he does. Or maybe I’m just seeing too much into things. My dad always said I thought too much about things that didn’t need thinking about. Of course, my mum said it was a good idea to think hard about those things. Never could decide which of them was right and which one was wrong. Maybe they both had their points.”

“’s good t’ think,” Merlin said, his words slurring together. “Sometimes I think too much.”

“So now I’m getting both sides of the argument from you?” Percival grinned. “See if I come to you for more advice. You’ll tell me to do two different things!” Was that a faint smile on Merlin's face? He fancied that it was. 

There was a knock at the door, and Blaise bustled in with little Stilicho at his heels. “What’s going on? I hear Merlin’s ill again? What are his symptoms?”

It hardly seemed possible for Blaise to shove Percival aside, and yet the big knight felt as though the skinny healer had done just that. “I found him sitting on the floor in a hallway, all pale and shaking, and his eyes like they are. He’s been confused and talks a lot of rubbish if he answers at all. He almost fainted on the stairs, so I carried him the rest of the way.”

“Those stairs,” Blaise scowled and shook his head. “Any other symptoms?”

“Symptoms?” 

“Yes. Symptoms. Did he vomit? Did he complain of a headache or dizziness? Did you check his heartbeat?” 

“Uh. No. To all of that.”

Blaise’s scowl deepened, making Percival feel like he’d done something wrong, though it wasn’t like he knew the healer’s trade well enough to know to check for Merlin’s heartbeat, or, if he did check, what it might mean. The healer pressed his fingers to Merlin’s throat, moving his lips like he was counting, then shook his head. “It’s slow. Too slow. He was at the wedding feast, wasn’t he? Do you know what he ate? Did he drink anything?”

“Yes, he was at the feast. I think he drank some wine. I don’t know what he ate.” He didn’t know he was supposed to have been paying attention to that.

The frown lines on Blaise’s face were going to become permanent if he didn’t stop scowling. “Merlin? Can you look at me? Merlin?” The sorcerer blinked slowly and finally met the healer’s gaze. His pupils were still so wide his eyes looked almost black. He shuddered, and a fine ring of gold flared in the thin circle of blue before his eyes closed again. His breathing seemed to have eased. 

Blaise shook his head. “That’s no good at all. Stil! Prepare a mixture of hawthorn and honey. Do you know where they are?” 

“Yes. I’ll have to heat some water.” 

“Get to it, then. I think it’s too late for an emetic. It’s already in the blood, so we’ll treat the symptoms as best we can and hope for the best. Here. Hold him up so I can put another cushion behind him,” Blaise ordered.

Percival put an arm behind Merlin’s shoulders and raised him. “What’s already in the blood?”

“A poison, if I don’t miss my guess. He’s been sick for weeks- months, even. But these symptoms don’t match those, and they’re too sudden. Did you notice any strangers at the wedding feast? Anyone new talking to Merlin?”

“No. He’s been so withdrawn since Gaius died. He’s hardly talked to the people he does know.” Percival frowned, thinking back to all the faces he’d seen that evening and trying to put a name to all of them, but it was a futile effort. He’d been introduced to a dozen or more people, and if he could remember half their names it would be a miracle. As for the rest of the minor nobles who’d shown up… “I’m not the person to ask about Camelot’s nobility. I can tell you all about the blacksmiths and woodcutters, but I’ve no idea who all the lords and ladies are. Sir Leon could tell you.”

“Hmph. Well. It may not be helpful anyway. Regardless, the king will want to hear of this. But not yet. We’ll tell him when there’s news to provide, not before. I don’t want him lurking around the room and glaring at me because I won’t give him answers I don’t have. Turn that hourglass there, would you? It’ll take some time to prepare that mixture and then longer to see how this progresses.”

“Is he going to be alright?” Percival asked, his eyes widening in alarm.

Blaise pursed his lips and touched his fingers to Merlin’s throat again. The sorcerer’s breathing hitched, but he didn’t wake. “I believe so. If he was poisoned, and the dose was lethal, I think it would have killed him by now. I’ll treat the symptoms as I see them, but we’ll simply have to wait until his body purges the poison. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

Percival nodded and eyed the sand falling in the hourglass, dreading the moment he would have to tell Arthur about this.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The hour passed too quickly for Percival’s liking, for while Merlin was resting more comfortably and Blaise’s frown faded, he was not looking forward to telling Arthur that someone had tried to kill Merlin again. Whatever the rumormongers said about the supposed ‘unnatural love’ between the king and the sorcerer, there was no denying the bonds of friendship between the two. An attack on Merlin could easily be a sidewards attack on Arthur meant to distract the king before some attack by an enemy-- like the Saxons. 

Percival paused mid-stride. Had the Saxons somehow managed to poison Merlin? Their new queen in Rheged was a sorceress-- or did they call them witches? Morgana was capable of God only knew what, and given their limited knowledge of the Saxons’ magical capabilities… 

He shook his head and walked on. He was a simple knight. Such problems were beyond his means of solving. Best to let people like Arthur or Leon think about them. 

But first, he had to gather his courage. Guards told him Arthur had left the wedding feast before it trailed to its end and retired to his chambers. Percival hoped he wasn’t rousing the king from sleep. Or from some amorous entertainments with the queen. Wincing, he tried to quell that thought and gently knocked on the door. 

There was a pause, then a rattle. The door creaked open a few inches to reveal George’s bland face staring up at him. “Sir Percival. Is something the matter?”

“Yes. Is the king here? I need to talk to him.”

“He’s here. He’s finishing a few matters of business before he retires for the night. I can take a message to him.”

Percival let out a slow breath and reminded himself that picking up the king’s servant and tossing him down the hallway was not a good use of his strength. No matter how irritatingly proper the man was. ‘A few matters of business’, indeed. Arthur had been as drunk as anyone else when Percival had left the feast. “Tell him that Merlin is ill and that Blaise wishes to speak with him as soon as possible.”

George’s eyes widened. “I’ll inform him immediately.”

The door clicked shut, and Percival scowled at it, wishing he’d had Leon or Bedivere with him. Either of those worthy knights would have been shown into the antechamber, not left to cool their heels in the hall. Merlin would have just wandered in.

The door flew open moments later, revealing a wide-eyed Arthur still dressed in his finery, though it was a bit rumpled. He’d sobered up quickly enough. “What’s happened?”

“When I left the great hall earlier, for a bit of air, I found Merlin, sire. He’d collapsed in that hall of windows upstairs. He was shaking and talking a lot of nonsense, so I got him up to his chambers and had Blaise come and take a look at him.”

“And?”

“I think Blaise ought to be the one to say. He’s hardly told me anything.” Percival shrugged. “But Merlin is doing better now. Or he was when I left.” 

Arthur brushed past him, leaving the door wide open as he strode down the hall. Percival gave George an apologetic glance over his shoulder as he hurried to catch up. Arthur wasn’t running, per se, but the big knight was glad his legs and stride were long. 

They wound their way through the halls and up the long stairs to Merlin's chambers in half the time it had taken Percival to go the other way. Arthur didn’t bother knocking. He strode in and surveyed the room like it was a battlefield, locking eyes with the first person he saw- poor little Stilicho. “What happened?”

Stil’s eyes widened. “Um. I- Um…” The boy seemed to have lost the power of speech. Percival couldn’t blame him. The look on Arthur’s face could have quelled a thunderstorm. 

“Majesty?” Blaise’s unflappable mien followed his voice around the screen by the hearth. “Over here, if you please. And keep your voice down. He’s sleeping, but fitfully.”

Arthur hardly looked chastened but did as he was bid, dropping into the chair at Merlin’s bedside. The sorcerer did indeed look better; there was color in his cheeks and he no longer gasped for breath. His eyelids twitched as though he were dreaming. About the girl, Freya? Percival had neglected to ask about her. 

“Did Percival tell you what happened?” Blaise asked.

“Only that Merlin had collapsed and he’d brought him up here and summoned you,” Arthur said, glancing up at the big knight. “He said you hadn’t told him much, and that I had better ask you.”

Blaise harrumphed and shot Percival an irate look. “I suppose he’s not wrong about that,” he said and sighed, hooking a stool with his foot and sitting down. “Find yourself a chair,” he said, scowling up at Percival, “You’re distracting when you loom like that.”

“Right.” Ducking his head in a faint apology, Percival grabbed the closest chair and sat down gingerly. It seemed rickety; he hoped it wouldn’t break under his weight. 

“So we all know that Merlin has been ill since, oh, I’d guess since Midwinter,” Blaise said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “His symptoms would come and go, but they’ve been consistent. Until tonight. Whatever is affecting him now is new. Based on what Sir Percival has described and what I’ve seen, I have reason to believe that Merlin was poisoned.”

“What?” Arthur’s voice was sharp and hard. Percival flinched from it. Blaise did, too. “With what? And by whom?”

“I- I can’t answer the last question. I wasn’t at Sir Gwaine’s wedding feast.” Blaise glanced up at Percival. “And I’m afraid I can’t say what was used, either. I’ve been searching my memory and looking through the books here, and I can come up with a dozen or more single toxins or blends of them that would cause Merlin’s symptoms. His heartbeat was too slow, yet he couldn’t catch his breath. His pupils were dilated, and he couldn’t seem to focus on anything. He was confused and fatigued. I’m afraid to treat him with anything more than the hawthorn I’ve already given him for fear that anything else will conflict with the poison and do more harm than good. But he is resting more easily now, so I believe the worst is past. He needs rest, and someone to watch over him through the night.”

Arthur closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, then stood and stalked toward the fireplace, hands on his hips. “I thought this was over. Pynell is dead. His agent is dead. I thought we wouldn’t have to worry that someone was trying to kill him, but-” he broke off, jaw clenching, then turned back to them. “Who’s been close to him today? Anyone who would want to harm him?”

“You and the queen. Gwaine and Linnet. Me and Leon and other knights. Niniane. Elayne. Some servants.” Percival shrugged helplessly. His list was both incomplete and useless. No one on it would hurt Merlin. Except, perhaps, for the servants, though he was sure that any of them who weren’t accustomed to the sorcerer’s strangeness were too frightened of him to risk harming him. “Someone could have paid one of the servants to slip something into his food or wine.” 

“I’ll have the servants from the feast questioned in the morning. If one of them runs away during the night, we’ll have our suspect.” Arthur said darkly.

“But then we wouldn’t be able to find out who paid them off,” Percival said.

No, we wouldn’t.” Arthur scowled and looked back at Blaise. “Will he be well enough by morning to tell us what happened?”

Blaise shrugged. “I think so, assuming he doesn’t take a sudden turn for the worse. But he may not be able to tell us anything. Poison is a subtle weapon, sire. It can be administered with a gesture of the hand, and you wouldn’t know it until it was too late. If no one else shares Merlin’s symptoms, we can be sure it wasn’t administered in the kitchens.”

“Has anyone reported a similar illness?”

“No. I suspect that the sickness we’ll hear about tomorrow will come from overindulgence in wine and rich foods,” Blaise said, a sour look on his face. “That’s what healers have to look forward to after every celebration.”

“People forget that they have to account for their behavior,” Arthur said softly. He was watching Merlin sleep. There was something sad and unfathomable in his eyes. Percival looked away, suddenly feeling like he had intruded into a moment he didn’t belong in. He was ordinary; as common as dirt. But Arthur and Merlin- they were the stuff that legends were made of.

“Will you stay with him tonight, Percival?” Arthur asked. “Make sure no one tries to hurt him again?”

“I can do that.”

Arthur nodded. “And would you stay, Blaise? To make sure he doesn’t get any sicker?”

“I would, sire, but I need to be ready for the drunken louts who’ll be darkening my doorstep in the morning,” Blaise grumbled. “But Aimery can help me with them. Stilicho is skilled enough to look after him. And I’d daresay that Niniane is, too.”

“When I last saw her, Elayne was escorting Niniane back to their chambers because she was drunk as a lord and singing off-key. She’ll probably be one of those louts darkening your doorstep in the morning.” He gave them a crooked grin, then sobered as he looked back at Merlin. Kneeling, he smoothed the blanket over the sleeping sorcerer’s chest. “As for you, you get well.” 

Percival sensed there was something left unspoken that Merlin would have understood, had he been awake to see it. 

“Thank you, Blaise. I’ll see to it that you’re paid in the morning. You, too, Stilicho,” Arthur said, nodding at the wide-eyed boy. “I’ll see you in the morning, Percival. Send for me at once if anything changes.” Or if anyone came to attack Merlin. Arthur didn’t need to say that for Percival to understand. He wished he had a weapon to hand, just in case. Maybe he could send a page to fetch his sword. 

“I’ll do that, sire. Good night,” Percival said. 

Arthur nodded and left the room with far less noise than he had entered it with. Blaise followed moments later, leaving Percival and Stilicho to stare at each other in the silence that fell. “This wasn’t how I expected this evening to go,” he said. 

Stilicho’s quick smile was a flash of white in the gloom. “How did you expect it to go?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn't have danced with any of the ladies. I don’t know how, and I’d have crushed someone’s foot if I tried. I suppose I’d have stood around watching everyone else have a good time until I could figure out how to leave without insulting Gwaine.” Percival paused and thought it over. “Though, I’d hope that after tonight, he wouldn’t remember who left early. He should have his mind on other things.”

Stilicho laughed softly. “On his wedding night, he shouldn’t have his eye on anyone but his bride.” The boy fell silent as he poured water over sachets suspended over two mugs. “Was Gareth there?”

“Gareth?” Percival thought back, then remembered the gangly squire, decked out in his fancy clothes, on hand to serve the wedding party. It was, Leon had told him, a place of honor. “Yes, he was there. Spent the dinner serving wine at the royal table before Arthur released him to go and dance. I saw him flailing about with a couple of girls. He hasn’t grown into his legs yet.”

“He is very tall,” Stilicho said, a sad expression flashing across his face before he lowered his eyes to the mugs on the table. He picked them up and brought them over, handing one to Percival before sitting down and blowing the steam off his mug.

“It doesn’t feel good, does it? To know your friends are having a good time without you.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” Stilicho said. “But we all have our roles to fill. And our duties to attend to.”

“Yeah,” Percival agreed. He looked down at Merlin, who was sleeping almost peacefully. This wasn’t the first night he’d spent watching over the sorcerer. God willing, it would be the last. “We all have our duties. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Though the sun was already high, Lancelot still felt like early to be awake. His head ached and his stomach threatened to rebel every time he looked around too quickly. But a summons from the king was not to be ignored, no matter how much the light hurt his eyes or how much he wanted to smack the smug page on the back of the head for looking fresh as a daisy.

Speaking of daisies…

He brushed a hand through his hair to make sure a daisy wasn’t still there. He remembered Elayne plucking one from her floral crown and tucking it behind his ear before some loutish lordling had swept her away for another dance. He also remembered being envious of the lout. He should have spoken first.

But that was last night, and this was today, and today he was to see the king for some unknown reason. He needed to get his head on straight and his thoughts in order because he was already at the door of the privy council chamber. Percival was waiting there. He looked like he’d hardly slept.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Lancelot asked.

Stifling a yawn, Percival shrugged. “I know one or two things, but not why we were summoned. Did you ever muster up the courage to ask Elayne to dance?”

He scowled. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“You didn’t? More’s the pity.”

“You’re both here, then? Good.” Leon hurried toward them, a harried look in his eyes and a half-dozen rolled-up parchments tucked under one arm. He opened the door, and the initial screech of the hinges made Lancelot wince. Leon beckoned them in and closed the door. “You missed Gwaine and Linnet this morning. They’re already on their way to Gywar.”

“Already?” Lancelot scrubbed a hand through his hair, wondering if he’d slept longer than he supposed. Surely an entire day hadn’t passed? 

Leon huffed a laugh. “They were up with the dawn, both of them chipper as songbirds and ready to go. I think they wanted their privacy, so they escaped as soon as they could.” He glanced up at Percival and asked, “How’s Merlin?”

“What’s wrong with Merlin?” Lancelot asked. Some of the bleariness cleared from his head. 

“He’s better this morning. Awake, talking, walking around like an old man,” Percival said. 

“Good,” Leon said, nodding as he unrolled one of the parchments and weighted the corners with polished stones. It was a map of some kind, though Lancelot couldn’t read the writing upside-down. “Arthur will be along shortly. He’ll want a more thorough report.”

“What’s wrong with Merlin?” Lancelot asked again.

“Someone tried to poison him last night,” Leon said.

“No, someone  _ did _ poison him last night,” Percival corrected. “Luckily, they didn’t do it well enough to finish him off.”

“What? Who?”

“Blaise doesn’t know with what, and we don’t know who. Yet.”

“The servants from the feast are being questioned right now,” Leon said. “I’m sure we’ll know something later.”

“But-”

The door opened again and Arthur entered, his face like a thundercloud and quiet fury in his eyes. He nodded in greeting and looked up at Percival. “How is he?”

“Better this morning. He’s up and about. Not moving too quickly, but Blaise said he’ll get better. Stil got him to drink some water and eat a bit of bread. I don’t think he’ll be up for doing much of anything today. He still looks a bit green. Got about as much sleep as I did, which wasn’t much.”

Some of the fury left Arthur’s eyes, and his shoulders lowered. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m glad to hear it. The servants didn’t see anything, or so they’ve been saying. I’m inclined to believe them, but it doesn’t make any sense. You didn’t see anything strange, did you?” he said, pinning Lancelot with an intense gaze.

“No. And I was beside him most of the night. Until he left to get some air. Maybe it happened after he left?”

“I asked him that,” Percival said. “He doesn’t remember seeing anyone after he left, and he says he didn’t eat or drink anything after the dinner ended.”

“And he didn’t eat or drink much of anything during the dinner, either,” Arthur muttered. His jaw clenched, and he spread his hands out on the map in front of him and stared down at it for a while. The silence stretched out, the air thick and heavy in the close room. “We’ll solve it. But now we have another problem to look after. Rheged. It’s been conquered by the Saxons, and their new queen is a sorceress who must be powerful if she’s frightened Morgana enough to make her side with us.”

“You think so?” Leon asked, one eyebrow rising. “That she’s switched sides altogether and wants to shake hands and pretend the last few years haven’t happened?”

“She was willing to warn us, and she didn’t harm Balin or Balan, though she’s known who they were. When this all began-- with her-- she’d have gladly killed us all if Merlin hadn’t been there.” He looked at and met their eyes in turn. “And now? Now she’s willing to help us. I’d be thrilled if she stopped fighting us for good, but I can’t imagine that after all this time she’ll give up chasing the throne. Something about the Saxons has scared the hell out of her. That’s the only reason I can think of for her warning.”

“They did slaughter King Urien, his family, and his household,” Leon said. “Last I knew Morgana was betrothed to Urien’s son, Accolon. But now he’s dead at Saxon hands. That’d be enough to turn someone.”

“But the Saxons are pagans, just as she is. If the world were so simple, she’d join with them against the new faith. Against us. Something about them frightens her, though. And if that something is bad enough to frighten a priestess of the Goddess, then I’ll be wary of it, too. But we have to find out what that something is.” He straightened and looked back to Lancelot, then at Percival. “And that’s the reason I summoned the two of you.”

A cold knot formed in Lancelot’s gut. The map, the hard look in Arthur’s eyes. He had a feeling he knew what was coming. He glanced at Percival, and it seemed like the big knight had come to the same conclusion. 

“We’ve sent men into Rheged to spy on them, but they’ve all disappeared or been killed outright. They were all men of Camelot and unused to Rheged’s laws and customs, its people, its speech. They were good men, loyal and true, but they must have stuck out in some way we couldn’t account for.”

“But I’m from Rheged,” Percival said slowly, “and I already know those things that your other men didn’t.”

“Yes,” Arthur said, nodding slowly. He looked at Lancelot. “And you’re from Brittany, from across the Narrow Sea. You’d stand out in Rheged as much as you do here in Camelot, but in a different way.”

“And you want us to go to Rheged and find out what the Saxons are planning,” Lancelot said softly. 

Arthur was calm now, all the anger gone from his face. He was no longer just a man worried about his friend; he was a king worried about his realm. About his people. Enough so that he was willing to put more of his friends into danger. “I will not order you to go. But I will ask it of you. For the sake of Camelot, will you walk in unknown dangers among the Saxons to discover their plans?”

It took Lancelot all of two heartbeats to make his decision. “Yes. I will go.”

“So will I,” Percival said a moment later.

Arthur nodded and closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, so softly Lancelot hardly heard him. “I might have asked Merlin to go or at least watch them, but…” 

He didn’t need to finish that sentence. He would have asked Merlin, but Merlin was too sick to travel, let alone embark on a mission as dangerous as this. “I understand,” Lancelot said. Arthur wasn’t intending to sacrifice two foreign knights to a lost cause. He was asking them because they had the best chance of success, small as that chance might be.

“I’ve been giving through to where you’ll go and how you’ll get there. Come around here,” Arthur said, motioning for them to join him. Now that Lancelot could see the map clearly, he saw that it showed the southern half of the five kingdoms-- Camelot, Nemeth, and Rheged were depicted in fine detail, while the lower parts of Amata and Deorham were mere sketches. “Lord Caradoc will be returning home in a few days to oversee repairs to the bridge there and shore up his defenses. You and a few of the other knights will be going with him, ostensibly to escort his family back here. The other knights will come back with them, but you will continue to the bridge. Caradoc will say that it’s to check on the bridge and see about the defenses on the far side of the river. But this,” he pointed to the spot on the river, “is where you’ll cross into Rheged. You’ll be able to follow the river to Londinium and then onto Gipeswic on the coast, where Rheged’s royal family has always lived. I’m sure the Saxons will remain in the traditional seat of power. Their ships will make port there, and they can freely send their raiders up and down the coast.”

“What do you want us to find out?” Percival asked.

Arthur tapped Gipeswic on the map. “They’ll have the rest of spring and all of the summer to bring more of their warriors from across the sea. I think it unlikely that, after taking Rheged so quickly, that they’ll just sit there and wait for the rest of the kingdoms to unite against them. If I were Rowena-- or Theoderic-- I’d call in as many reinforcements and possible and strike on two fronts.” His finger skimmed across the map to the border of Camelot. “Against us, to their west, and against Deorham in the north.”

“Or against us at Tintagel,” Leon muttered.

“Or at Tintagel,” Arthur agreed reluctantly. “What we need to know is where they plan to strike first. Find that out, and then get back here as quickly as possible. I don’t think we can count on Merlin’s birds. That plan didn’t work all winter.”

Arthur’s tone, the nervousness underlying it, raised the hairs on Lancelot’s neck. Merlin’s birds had failed him at Tintagel. Merlin had been sick since midwinter, had been poisoned, was growing ever stranger, his mind ever cloudier, his conversations ever more oblique. While his grief at Gaius’s death might account for some of his distance, it didn’t account for all. He resolved to go and see Merlin before he left, in case… What? In case something happened to him? In case Merlin was mortally ill, and Arthur was keeping it secret in case the Saxon sorcerers used the opportunity to attack? In case Merlin was mortally ill and Arthur was in denial about it? 

“Will you be sending us in with any money? We might need to bribe some folk, and Camelot’s coin won’t do us much good across the border. I don’t think the Saxons will take too kindly to taking silver with your face stamped on it,” Percival said. 

“We’ll find you something. I’m sure there’s a trunk of coins somewhere with Aurelius’s face. Might be a little old, but the Saxons probably won’t recognize my uncle aftr all this time.”

“I know I wouldn’t,” Percival said. 

“Who was Aurelius?” Lancelot asked.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “The stories didn’t get back to you in Brittany?”

“None that I ever heard.”

“Aurelius was my father’s older brother. He was heir to the throne here in Camelot, but he and my father were exiled after Vortigern invaded with his Saxon mercenaries. Years later, Aurelius built up an army on the Breton coast and a resistance force here and took back the throne. But he’d barely reigned for a year when he died suddenly. Some say it was an illness, others say he was poisoned. But whatever happened, my father found himself on the throne and facing attacks from nearly every side. He was a great general, though, and he held onto his kingdom and his crown. And then…” Arthur’s fingertips, perhaps unconsciously, traced the lines on the map until they landed on the haunted forest of Broceliande. 

“And then came the Purge?”

“And then came the Purge,” Arthur said softly, his eyes distant as though he were looking at far gone memories and not the table before him. “He annihilated the people who might have been our greatest allies in this fight. Or not. Merlin is powerful beyond my imaginings, but he hasn’t been well for a long time, and it may be a long time before he is recovered. And while Morgana might have sent a warning, I don’t trust her to aid us. She has her own agenda. Always has. I wish we knew what it was.” He ran his fingertips along the map again, this time toward its western edge where the Isle of the Blessed lay with a note next to it: ‘here be dragons’. 

“I don’t think I need to tell you two not to tell anyone of your true destination,” Arthur went on. “After Celiwig and the bridge, we’ll say you’re riding along the border to check on the defenses. I’ll have other men doing that sporadically, so no one will think anything of it. Something like that could take you all summer. So pack your things-- nothing marked with the symbols of Camelot-- and say your good-byes. You’ll be departing with Lord Caradoc in two days. And… thank you. Both of you. I don’t ask this lightly.” 

“Sire-- Arthur. We know that. We didn’t come to your aide all those years ago because we thought it would be all wine and roses,” Lancelot said. 

Arthur gave him a wry grin. “You came because of Merlin.”

“And then we swore our oaths to you, not to him,” Lancelot said.

The king’s smile softened and turned true. He looked down. “Then I am doubly blessed. Now,” he said the last louder, “you should go and pack. You’ll have horses and baggage to see about, and not much time to get it all ready. Also, Balin and Balan will be going with you, at least as far as the bridge. They’ll remain there to oversee the defenses at the river. Once you have the information we’re looking for, I’d advise you to cross the border there, at the river.”

“Yes, sire,” Lancelot said, withholding his sigh at the news. He had only met the twin knights a couple of days ago, but he already knew he’d be using all his willpower not to smack the mouthy one upside the head. The things they endured for king and country. 

“Is that all?” Percival asked.

“I would have thought it was more than enough,” Arthur said, his wry tone returning. “But yes, that’s all for now. See to your preparations.”

“If it’s all the same to you, sire, I think I’ll go see Merlin first. It’s one thing to hear that he’s all right. It’s another thing to see it with your own two eyes,” Lancelot said, ducking his head in a brief bow.

‘Do that. Send word if anything has changed. I doubt I’ll be able to see him before this evening.” Arthur’s expression darkened for a moment, then calmed. “Find out if he had any bit of fun last night before he was poisoned. He’s had a hard few weeks.”

“I’ll do that,” Lancelot said instead, nodding to Leon, who was holding the door for them. He made no sign that he would follow them. He and Arthur would likely be holed up in that room for the rest of the day, making whatever plans kings and their generals made when facing the possibility of invasion. Lancelot was glad to be leaving all that up to them. Give him a just cause to fight for. That was all he asked. 

He and Percival had made it about a dozen paces down the hall before the big knight stopped, let out a long breath, and sank against the wall. “You know we’re both mad, right? Doing this?”

“I know. But he’s right. Of all the knights, we’re the best suited.”

“Yeah. Though I swore to myself I’d never go back. Not after…” Percival shook his head. Lancelot thought he knew what was going through his head: images of a smoldering woodcutter’s hut, the bodies of his brothers cut down by Cenred’s soldiers over some trivial matter, his father executed for daring to defend his wife. And Percival, the lone survivor, spared because he’d happened to be out in the woods searching for a stray goat. He’d never found the goat. 

Lancelot had heard this story only once, the first night he’d met Percival, drunk and stunned by loss, at a tavern outside Gepiswic. That hollowness in his eyes had cut him to the core, and he couldn’t simply walk away from the man. They’d been traveling together for four months when Merlin’s plea for help arrived. They’d willingly answered the call and pledged themselves to a prince they barely knew. Lancelot had no regrets. As far as he knew, Percival didn’t, either. 

But this plan did border on madness. And they were leaving Merlin behind while his health was failing and after yet another assassination attempt. 

“It’s only until autumn, right? That’ll be here before we know it. With any luck, we’ll be spending Samhain right here in the great hall.”

Percival raised an eyebrow, but he straightened. “When have we ever had any luck?”

Lancelot gestured at the castle around them and at their clean clothes. They had a roof over their heads, good food in their bellies, and a new purpose in life. It was more than they could have asked for on that rainy night in Gipeswic. 

“We’re idiots for leaving it behind.”

“For a good cause,” Lancelot said. 

“You and your causes. They’ll be the death of me. One of these days you’ll talk me into saving some little girl’s kitten, and I’ll get run over by a cart.”

“It’d be more likely that you’d run over the cart.”

“I’m not quite big enough for that.” Percival laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, shoving him forward and down the hall. “Let’s go. I’ll feel better about all this after talking to the only man in Camelot crazier than we are.” 

Lancelot tried and failed to come up with a rejoinder to that. He paused, one foot on a stair. “How was he? You said he’d been poisoned?”

“He..” Percival trailed off, glancing up the stairs and then back down again. He licked his lips. “He was as healthy this morning as he’s been all year. Mostly. Moving around like an old man and pretending he felt better than he looked. Gave me a hell of a scare last night, when I found him. He was saying the strangest things. I’ve seen him do some wild things with his magic, but lately-- I don’t know. I’ve never stopped to wonder what the magic might be doing to him, you know? It’s all beyond my ken. But what do you say when someone asks you if God talks back when you pray?” 

“I don’t know.” Lancelot shivered. It was growing harder for him to reconcile his memory of the awkward serving boy he’d met so long ago with the uncanny man Merlin had become. Then he squared his shoulders. “We don’t have much time to see him before we go, so we’d best get up there.”

Niniane greeted them at the door, a smile on her face and a tightness around her eyes. She opened the door, wincing at the squeaking of the hinges. “I hope you’re doing better than the lot of us this fine morning.” 

“It did take some convincing to get out of bed,” Lancelot admitted. “It’s easy to forget how strong wine is when it tastes like that.”

“Indeed,” Niniane said dryly. She put a hand to her forehead and looked up at him, bleary-eyed. “Merlin’s awake. He’s changing out of last night’s clothes. You’d think he was suffering from the same thing as the rest of us, except…” She trailed off, jaw clenched, eyes shining with unshed tears.

“How is he? Does he remember what happened?” 

Niniane flung herself into a tableside chair, took up a mortar and pestle, and proceeded to take out her frustrations on a mess of dried herbs. “He keeps saying that he’s perfectly fine. That’s he’s been worse. That he survived it, so there’s nothing to fuss over. Someone tried to kill him. Again. And his only reaction is to shrug it off and pretend nothing’s happened. I can appreciate his stoicism in most circumstances, but this--” she jabbed at the mortar. “You’d think he would be angry about it!”

“And what would that solve?” Merlin’s soft voice seemed loud in the still air. He stood in the doorway to his little bedroom, pale as a ghost and slouching. With a sigh, he descended the steps, his soft shoes silent against the floorboards as he shuffled along until he half-collapsed in the chair next to Niniane. “If I ranted and raved against everyone who wished me ill, what would that get me besides a sore throat?”

“Then people might realize that you won’t stand for being mistreated like this,” Niniane said sharply. “They might give you a fraction of the respect you deserve.”

Merlin gave her a tired smile that soon faded. “And they say all Druids are such peaceful people.”

“Even we have our limits,” she said, then slid a cup of tea in front of him. “Drink this. It’ll help your head. Perhaps I should make more, since we have guests who drank too much last night.” She stood, nearly knocking her chair over as she stormed toward the hearth and disappeared behind the screen.

Lancelot eased himself into the chair across from Merlin and rested his elbows on the table. “She’s right. It wouldn’t hurt if you stood up for yourself more often.”

“I appreciate the sentiment. But I’ve no desire to terrify some poor stonemason because he looked at me wrong. And I’m just too tired to worry about it,” he said, his voice gravelly. He buried his face in his hands and ran his fingers through his hair. “After the council meetings and my duties as Court Physician, all I want to do is sit down and sleep. And not necessarily in that order.”

“Have any of your concoctions worked?” Percival had pulled a ridiculously small stool over and perched on it. He looked like a bull sitting atop a fence post. “Stilicho was jabbering on about them all night. I think I caught one word in three.”

A genuine, if small, smile appeared on Merlin’s face. “Thank you for staying with him all night. You didn’t need to. But no, nothing Blaise or I have come up with has worked for long. We’ll try something new, it will work for a few days, and then it doesn’t work anymore.”

“Does Arthur know all this?” Lancelot asked.

The faint smile widened. “Of course he does. He’s up here nearly every night, poking at me to eat more or get more rest. I keep telling him that I would get more rest if he wasn’t up here nagging me about it. I wouldn’t recommend that course of action. It doesn’t go over well.”

“I can imagine,” Lancelot said. Beside him, Percival’s laugh was a low rumble. “You and the queen are the only two people in the kingdom who could get away with it at all. Someone else would be mucking stalls in the royal stables for the next month.”

“Oh, I know. I’ve been that someone.” Merlin hid his smirk behind the brim of the cup before he turned his attention to its contents, drinking it all in one long pull. He set the cup down with a grimace. “You’d think we’d have figured out how to make that taste better.”

“Does it help?” Lancelot asked.

“A little.” Merlin shrugged.

“It’s willow bark tea. It’s always going to be bitter. I did put honey in it.” Niniane breezed back to the table with a pot of steaming water. She set it on the table and ladled out three cups of water, into which she dropped sachets of herbs and a dollop of honey each. Lancelot dared a sip. It wasn’t awful.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their bitter tea in the hopes that it would cure their achings heads. Merlin slowly turned his cup round and round in his hands like he was waiting for the right moment to say something unpleasant. Or perhaps he was simply gathering his strength to stand and attend to his duties. “As much as I appreciate your being here, I’m assuming Niniane’s tea isn’t the only reason you’ve come?”

Lancelot gave him a crooked grin. In other times, Merlin would have guessed that right away. He might even have sussed out the answer without having to prompt them. Or he would have been the one to suggest it to Arthur in the first place and been there when the king asked them to go to Rheged. He set his cup aside. “Percival and I are leaving with Lord Caradoc when he leaves in a few days. Arthur wants us to check on the repairs to the bridge at the border there, and then spend the summer riding northward toward Deorham to inspect the defenses, then report back at the beginning of autumn.” The lie rolled off his tongue so easily. 

Merlin blinked back at him, his gaze clouded, though if it was from pain, weariness, or the lingering effects of the poison, Lancelot could not say. “That sounds like a lonely duty. I take it he chose you,” his gaze landed on Percival, “because you’re from there and you’ll blend in better?”

“So he said.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t suggest it sooner,” he said dully.

“Indeed.” Lancelot stared down at the last of his tea, wondering where his clever friend had gone. And if he would be here when they returned. “With any luck, it’ll be a long and boring ride through some nice countryside.” 

“There are a lot of hills and sheep out that way. And all the haunted forests are west of here.” Merlin shivered and pressed a hand to his temple. “If you’re looking for more insight than that, I’m afraid I don’t have any. That’s all… gone.” 

“No, we weren’t looking for any insight. We just wanted a chance to bid you farewell in case something happens between now and then. There’s a lot to do, what with requisitioning provisions and packing and everything else.”

Merlin’s smile was an eerie thing, making him look as though he knew something they didn’t. Something disturbing. Something he wasn’t going to tell them. Something they didn’t want to know anyway. “It’s a darker road than you’re letting on, then. I’ll wish you the best of luck, but I can’t tell you to go with the Gods, plural or singular. You would have to go to Father Gildas for that.”

“I’ve never needed his blessing before. I’ll not ask for it now,” Lancelot said and licked his lips, suddenly nervous. He felt a sense of finality when he looked back at Merlin and then Niniane, as though he knew already that, whatever the future held when they were all together again, nothing would be as it was, and he mourned the changes without knowing what they entailed. He wished, for a moment, that he could return to a time now gone, when he was a wanderer in these strange lands and Merlin had been an awkward serving boy hiding his magic. 

He raised his cup then, words coming to him almost unbidden. “To the future. May we all make the best possible choice.”

Percival and Ninian raised their cups, tapping them gently against his. “To the future.” 

Merlin was still, contemplative. Looking at no one and nothing.

“We should go,” Percival rumbled. “We have a lot to do. And you could do with some rest, Merlin.”

“Eventually,” the sorcerer murmured, “but not yet.” He already seemed half-asleep where he sat. 

Lancelot tried to smile and failed. He held back a sigh and touched Niniane’s hand. “Take care of him for us.”

“Of course,” she replied somberly, as though infected with Merlin’s fey mood. “Safe journeys to both of you.”

“Thank you,” he said and rose, gesturing for Percival to go ahead of him. He closed the door behind and trudged down the many stairs, pausing in a patch of sunlight when they finally reached the bottom. Unlike the ominous and airless atmosphere of Merlin’s chambers above, here it felt like springtime again. 

“Something wrong?” Percival asked.

“I don’t know. I had a bad feeling up there. Like something awful’s going to happen, and we won’t be there to stop it. Or to help him.”

Percival was silent, then, “He can take care of himself.” He didn’t sound like he was convinced by his own words. 

“Maybe.” Lancelot sank against a window ledge. “Have you ever seen anyone afflicted with one of those wasting diseases?” 

“Can’t say as I have. We didn’t see all that many people in the woods when I was a boy.”

“There was this family that lived in the same valley as mine. A farmer and his wife and their two little girls, about this high,” he held his hand out at waist-height. “The wife, Rozenn was her name. She was beautiful. Hair like ripe wheat. But she developed a wasting disease; some tumor in her side. It took her a year and a half to die. She was bed-ridden for the last few months. Too weak even to braid her daughters’ hair. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

“You think Merlin has something like that?” Percival looked over his shoulder toward the stairs.

“I hope not. But what are the alternatives? Some magical things we can’t fathom or fight? Not that we’ll even be here to help him.”

“Arthur will be here for him. And the queen, and Niniane and Gwaine and Elyan and Bedivere, and who knows who else will help him when he needs it?”

Lancelot straightened. “I hate to leave him like this, all the same.”

“I know.” Percival rested a hand on his shoulder. “I know.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Dawn, two days later, found them yawning as they checked the saddlebags and luggage on their horses and on the packhorses, one last time. And then again, for there seemed nothing else to do while they waited for Lord Caradoc to finish his extensive farewells to his son. Not that Lancelot could blame him. It must be a hard thing, to say good-bye to your child, even if that child was going to be serving in such a place of honor as the king’s court. But it would be a long time before Caradoc would see Gaheris again.

So Lancelot schooled himself to patience while Caradoc continued his stern and understated fuss over the boy, beseeching him to obey the king in everything and to act with the honor required of the knight he would one day, God willing, become. 

Percival, it seemed, could blame Caradoc for his exhortations. The big knight had heaved a second exasperated sigh. His horse answered that with a snort of apparent agreement. 

Lancelot made a show of scratching his nose to hide his smile. 

The two of them weren’t the only ones beginning to grow weary of Caradoc’s lecture. Arthur himself, along with Guinevere, Merlin, and Bedivere were on hand to see the company off, and the king was fidgeting. 

There was only so much nose scratching Lancelot could do and still be believable, so he dropped his hand to his side and attempted to keep the smile off his face. Guinevere caught his eye, and even across the distance, she noticed his expression, matching it with a barely suppressed grin of her own. 

When, finally, Caradoc had said everything he needed to say to Gaheris, he clapped the boy on the shoulder, resting his hand there long enough Lancelot thought he might pull him into a hug. But Caradoc straightened his back and urged his son to stand with Bedivere, the knight Gaheris would be squiring for until he earned his knighthood. 

Then, finally, Arthur could put his excess energy to good use. He nodded to Gaheris and clasped Caradoc’s arm. “My Lord. Thank you again for everything you’ve done for us. We wouldn’t be standing here today if it weren’t for you. We’d likely be at war now if you hadn’t spoken when you did.”

“Thank you. Sire. I just wish-” Caradoc broke off and glanced up into the gray morning mist. “I wish things had been different with Pynell. If he could have accepted the changes in the world, he would have been a staunch ally against the Saxons.”

“I wish things had ended differently, too. Safe journey, my Lord. I’ll be sure Sir Bedivere takes good care of your son.”

“Thank you, Sire.” Caradoc bowed and stepped back to take his horse’s reins from the groom. 

Arthur turned to Lancelot and Percival, and, by default, to Balin and Balan, who were standing next to them. Neither of the twins looked like they had fully woken up and were stifling yawns, straightening only when Arthur cast his glance over them. “And you lot, take care of yourselves as well. And report back at once if you see any Saxon movements along the border. There are only a few places where an army could come at us, but a small raiding party might attack anywhere. Learn what you can, but don’t take any unnecessary risks,” he said, holding first Lancelot and then Percival with his gaze. They both nodded in understanding. 

“Any words of wisdom for the two of us, Sire?” Balan-- he was the mouthy one, Lancelot had learned-- offered the king what he must have thought was a winning smile. 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Don’t lead with your mouth, Sir Balan. And Sir Balin?”

“Sire?”

“Feel free to gag this one if you ever find it necessary.”

Balin grinned. “I’ll do that, Sire.” He seemed a bit too enthusiastic at the thought. 

Before Arthur turned away, Lancelot caught sight of the crooked grin he wasn’t hiding very well. He smirked, then made use of the mounting block to climb into his saddle. His horse perked up, ears flicking about and hooves ringing against the cobblestones as he danced in place. Lancelot patted him on the neck and shushed him so the ruckus wouldn’t drown out Arthur’s final words to them. 

“Farewell, my Lord Caradoc. May we meet again under better circumstances, and sooner rather than later. Safe travels to all of you, and may God be with you as you carry out your duties,” Arthur said, offering a bittersweet smile. Guinevere raised a hand in farewell.

Beside them, Merlin tilted his head. He pinned Lancelot with an eerie gaze that lasted until he flicked his horse's reins and turned the beast to follow Caradoc’s lead. He spared a glance back at the royal retinue, so bright in their red finery. But Merlin already seemed to be disappearing into the fog, his edges blurred as though he were nothing more than a ghost with nothing real or defined about his form save for the faint spark of gold that flashed in his eyes. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Here. Eat this. And don’t look at me like that. At least this has some flavor to it. The pottage the cooks feed sick people here isn’t fit for pigs.” Niniane tried to keep the stern look on her face, but the rueful smile Merlin gave her was too sweet, the faint blush on his cheeks too rare for her to maintain her serious mien for long. She smiled back and sat down across from him as he dipped his spoon into the soup she’d made and took a bite. “Well?”

He considered it, then said, “It’s good. Do you add honey to everything you make?”

“Why not? It makes it so the onions don’t overwhelm everything else. Besides. You like sweet things.”

His grin returned, stronger now. He took another bite and another; it looked like he might eat the whole bowl. Niniane’s shoulders relaxed. Finally. She’d found something he was willing to eat all of. A rarity. These days, Merlin was more likely to eat only a bite or two of something before pushing it away, saying that he had no appetite or that he felt too sick to eat more. Except for apple pastries or honey cakes. Those things, he would finish. So Niniane had racked her brain and searched Geoffrey’s collection of books on cookery to find some fortifying soup or stew or whatever might be made with honey in the hopes that it would appeal to Merlin. She’d finally found a Breton soup-- which she could have asked Lancelot for, if only she’d known, and saved herself the trouble-- and hurried to the market to buy the freshest onions and turnips and other ingredients she could find. 

Her efforts hadn’t been for naught, and she felt ridiculously proud of herself, as though she had finished some great task and not simply made a satisfying soup. But Merlin was finally eating something. HIs health had been in decline for months, and the fall had been sharpest after Gaius’s death, as though the old physician’s passing had undone some vital thread that helped hold Merlin together. 

She buried the tiny, vicious part of herself that complained at this, that declared that she, too, had lost loved ones and hadn’t withered away at the loss. She buried it deep, not knowing where it had come from. People responded differently to grief. She’d seen it often enough not. And given the immensity of Merlin’s powers, who was she to say that the death of a loved one wouldn’t uproot some part of his mind? Hadn’t he told her that his powers had been erratic for weeks after his burning at Blackheath? 

And if that was the case, Gods help them all if Arthur died...

Niniane buried that thought, too. Merlin was too focused on his food to notice the errant and morbid path her mind had traveled down. She forced herself to think about the bundles of herbs hung up to dry. Were they ready to be taken down? Had any of them become moldy? She would check on them. Later.

Merlin was watching her. He’d put his spoon down, his soup gone save for a few bits of turnip and broth. He was smiling. Genuinely smiling. 

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He reached out, his hand only shaking a little as he twined his fingers with hers. 

“Do you feel better now that you’ve eaten something?”

“A little.”

“There’s more if you want it.”

“Maybe later.”

Niniane raised an eyebrow. “You’d better eat it later. I’ll keep it warm for you.” She pushed the bowl aside and took his other hand. “We’ll find out what’s causing this. Surely there’s an answer in a book somewhere that we haven’t looked in yet. Or maybe there’s something in that head of yours amidst all the bits and bobs about ruined cities from a thousand years ago.”

“I’ve been wracking this head of mine for weeks. I can’t think of anything. It feels like a fog has settled on my brain and I can’t find my way through it.” Merlin’s eyes drifted shut. She thought he might be falling asleep, but he didn’t lower his head to the table and his grip on her fingers didn’t slacken. 

“We should go out into the forest, you and I,” she said. “Not tonight, on Beltane eve, when all the wild things are abroad in the wood. But soon. You should see the sunshine, listen to the birds singing. We could even say we’re out there to pick herbs for medicines.”

He smiled wearily. “That’s what apprentices are for.”

“You don’t have one of those, so you’re going to have to accept whatever help from whatever other healer happens to come along, and I happen to be a healer who happens to have come along. And in my opinion as a healer, you could use a day away from this stuffy castle and its boring people. The fresh air would do you good.”

“It might,” he admitted. His smile widened and grew less weary. “Is that your advice for your patient, then, Healer? Sunshine and sweetgrass in the forest?”

“As long as you’re sitting on the grass and not trying to eat it. Otherwise, I might say that you think you’ve become a cow. And then I’ll have to come back here by myself and tell everyone that the fearsome sorcerer Merlin has lost his mind and believes he’s a cow.” She gave him an impish grin, and her heart sang when she saw the sparkle in his eyes. It had been gone for so long, dampened by that mental fog. 

“There are worse fates than being a cow,” he said, laughing. 

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Right up until you end up as roast beef on someone’s plate. That wouldn’t be a good end. What say we keep away from cows, and you stay just as you are?”

“I will endeavor to do so, my Lady,” Merlin said, ducking his head in a mockery of a formal bow. “But if the cow approaches me first, it’s not my fault.”

“I will forgive you, in that case,” Niniane said, laughing. It felt good to laugh about nonsense for once. Merlin’s moods had been dark of late, his mind too full of sickness and grief for light-heartedness to enter. She wished she could whisk him away from his responsibilities for a while- take him back to stay among her people for a few weeks, or to the Summer Country next winter. Being away from this castle, from these people would do him good. Perhaps it would dispel the fog that troubled him and brighten his spirits or even heal the sickness that plagued him. 

She tilted his chin up to look him in the eye. “What do you say we--”

There was a knock at the door, and before either of them could answer, it opened and the king walked in. Niniane kept the smile on her face despite the hot flare of anger in her chest. Of course Arthur would walk in without being invited; it was, apparently, the king’s prerogative to deny even a modicum of privacy in his castle. And of course Merlin’s attention would slip away from her and land, full force, upon Arthur. 

“Am I interrupting anything?” the king asked, a wry smile playing about his lips, as though he’d caught them doing something more intimate than sitting at a table. 

Niniane folded her hands in front of her and bobbed her head. “Not at all, Sire. We were just discussing cattle.”

“Cattle?” Arthur’s brow furrowed, making him look a bit vapid. Then he shrugged and leaned over the table, his hands grasping either edge. She forced herself not to lean away from him. He did loom unnervingly sometimes. Did he know what effect he had on people? “If it’s a vital conversation about cattle, I can come back later.”

“No, it wasn’t important,” Merlin said. “What did you need? Are Drusilla and Geoffrey at odds again?”

“No, nothing like that,” Arthur chuckled. “If you’re feeling up to it, I’d like you to see the chambers I’d give you, assuming I can talk you into moving into them.”

Merlin cast her a long-suffering glance and a weary smile. Since Gaius’s death, Arthur had tried every tactic he could think of to get Merlin into another set of chambers that wasn’t so far from everything. There were practical reasons: the stairs to the old tower were long and narrow, which made it difficult to carry litters up and down. And it was part of the castle’s oldest section. Unfashionable, and a long walk from the royal wing and the great hall and the library and every other place that should matter to a royal physician and king’s counselor. 

What Arthur didn’t seem to realize was that the distance provided Merlin a sanctuary from the press of minds and noise that encompassed the rest of the castle. Here, it was quiet. The noise of servants and guards and raucous noblemen couldn’t make it up the stairs, and idle pageboys weren’t willing to climb all those steps to listen at doorways to things they shouldn’t overhear. 

“I’ll look,” Merlin sighed. Niniane sensed his exasperation and mentally answered him with sympathy. Queen Guinevere asked little of her ladies, save for their company, but even she had her idle demands that simply must be met then and there. “But that’s not a promise that I’ll take them.”

“I know.” Arthur raised his hands as though asking forgiveness, then offered a hand to Merlin, who ignored it and stood under his own power. He wasn’t so ill he couldn't stand. “They were my uncle’s chambers. Ambrosius, who was king before my father. He took Camelot back from the usurper, Vortigern, but died soon after,” he said, glancing at Niniane as he led the way down the stairs. 

“I’ve heard of him,” she said, arching a brow. Did he think she didn’t know her own people’s history? “My people fought on his side against Vortigern. Ambrosius was a Pagan. Iseldir told me he once led the Samhain rites at the oak grove below the great stone circle near Ambersbury. There were rumors he was poisoned.”

“It was never proven,” Arthur said. He had the good sense to look chastened at his assumption of her ignorance. “But anyway. After my father took the throne and put an end to Vortigern and his army, he closed up the rooms and never used them again. It always seemed like an odd way to honor his memory, but once he made up his mind, well. You know what he was like,” he finished flatly. 

“I know,” Merlin answered dryly. 

Niniane bit back her smile at Arthur’s abashed look. Two people in the kingdom could put that look on the king’s face, and only Merlin could do it with two words. They continued in silence, winding their way down the stairs and through long hallways, moving more slowly than they otherwise would have to account for Merlin’s weary steps. 

But finally, Arthur spoke again, his words about the rooms coming in a rush as though he were afraid Merlin might be expecting a bare stone room with no windows. “There’s a second, smaller bedroom, and a sizable antechamber, so if you find an apprentice, he’ll have somewhere to sleep. It looks out over the courtyard, and there are plenty of windows. Lots of light in the morning. Shelves for books or plants. Or whatever. And it’ll be warmer in the winter. And there’s a real bed.”

“I have a real bed.”

“You sleep on a glorified pile of straw. You could ask for something better. It’s easy enough to fix,” Arthur said. 

“I’ve slept on worse,” Merlin said. 

Arthur sighed. “You do know that having some nice things won’t ruin you? And don’t tell me that you’re worried about what the people will think about it. I’m not trying to give you lands and titles and heaps of gold. I’m offering you a set of rooms that no one’s used for thirty years. And it only makes sense for the royal physician to live in the royal wing, given that he’s meant to serve the royal family. My father wasn’t always on the best terms with Gaius, so I understand why he lived in that tower, but you don’t have to. Merlin…” he stopped and turned to face Merlin. “For once, let me give you something.”

Niniane sensed Merlin’s hesitation. She linked her arm with his and looked up at him through her eyelashes. “It would be nice to have you closer to us.”

“I’m under siege,” Merlin said, though there was more amusement than irritation in his voice. “I told you I’d look at these chambers of yours. It can’t hurt to do that. But I’m not promising anything.”

“I understand.” Arthur nodded and winked at Niniane before leading them on down the hall. 

The chambers the king led them to were less dusty and sunnier than Niniane had expected. Arthur had probably had them cleaned and aired, and simple but elegant furnishings brought in to entice his friend into accepting them. The table and chairs were certainly not what a king would use in his own home, even if he had spent years on the move with an army at his back. Everything had been polished until it held a warm glow, and the rows of shelves-- which looked newer than everything else-- stood ready to accept books, jars of herbs and medicines, and whatever else a physician might see fit to put on them. There was a hearth along the far wall where they might set up the ornate wooden screen that gave patients a bit of privacy, and next to that was the door to the antechamber. Half a dozen windows broke up the length of the exterior wall; these were decorated with bits of stained glass that would light up the room with rich blue hues in the evening. Even now, they gave the room a feeling of light and life, despite the dark wood everywhere. 

Merlin was drawn to the windows, one hand reaching out to the lilies traced in blue glass, as though he saw something out of one of his dreams. 

She and Arthur exchanged a glance, and he smiled. “The windows in the bedroom have the same pattern.” He opened another door to reveal a small room, about a third the size of the main room, but still spacious. There was a large, curtained bed piled high with blankets and pillows, a small table and chair, and more shelves.

“Well? What do you think?” Arthur asked.

“It’s lovely,” Merlin said evenly, his eyes still on the windows. “It’s awfully empty.”

“It would feel less empty with all your things in it,” Niniane laughed. She practically danced over the rows of shelves and ran her fingers along them. “Just imagine it. All the herbs and medicines lined up here, easy to see and ready to use. No more having to push things aside and poke around for the particular thing you’re after. No more worrying if you grabbed the aconite instead of the anise or the fairy bells instead of the comfrey. A single row on each shelf instead of two or three.”

She put her back to the shelves and stretched her arms along them. “I’ll take the place if you won’t. I’m sure Elayne wouldn’t mind having our rooms to herself, now that Linnet’s got herself married and has a house of her own.”

“And here I thought Druids owned only what they carried,” Arthur said, grinning. “And now you have your eye on a set of royal chambers.”

“I will admit that having a warm, soft bed makes the rainy nights pass more comfortably. And besides. I’ve yet to meet a woman who isn’t entranced by the idea of having more shelves than she has things to put on them. It’s almost as good as having large, well-made pockets sewn into your skirts.”

“Shelves?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “I see. So I spent all those years trying to woo ladies with flowers and jewels, and all I had to do was offer to find a carpenter who would make them more shelves.”

“Perhaps,” Niniane said thoughtfully, then grinned. “Or maybe the ladies would have fallen in love with the carpenter instead.”

“That would be the dangerous part of the plan,” Arthur admitted, smiling. He turned to Merlin, who had sat down on one of the chairs. “Well, what do you think?”

“I think I’ll think about it,” Merlin said, though Niniane sensed he was warming up to the place. 

“Don’t think overlong. I might just give it all to Niniane.”

She laughed and bent over to kiss Merlin on the cheek. “I’d let you come to visit.” Mind to mind, she said, _‘Let him give you something, love. It would make you both happy. You’d be closer to all of us. And warmer. I know how much the cold bothered you over the winter.’_

_‘It bothered you, too.’_

_‘Then just think of how pleasant it will be next winter if we get to while away the hours here, instead of up in the tower with its drafts and ice on the windows.’_

Merlin sighed. It was the sound of someone who was beginning to capitulate. “I’m still thinking about it.”

“But don’t be in a rush to offer all this to someone else. He’ll say ‘yes’. Give him a little time,” Niniane said. At that, Merlin rolled his eyes but didn’t gainsay her. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Arthur said. He glanced out at the lengthening shadows and his shoulders slouched. “I should go. The council meeting begins soon.”

“Do you want me there?” Merlin asked. 

“No, it’s all right. We’re settling on the finer details of the progress this summer. Do we spend five days at Venta Belgarum or an entire week? That sort of thing. I’m not looking forward to it. I don’t want to be away from the city with the Saxons building up their forces just on the other side of the border, but if the lords along the northern and eastern borders need to be reminded of who they’re fighting for, it’s necessary.”

“If the Saxons make their move toward the border, you’ll have an army at your side. The border lords are oathbound to serve you, as are their people,” Merlin straightened, as though he found this talk of politics more strengthening than the food Niniane had made for him. 

“An army of hastily trained farmers? I’d rather have my knights at my back,” Arthur said. 

“Percival was a hastily trained woodsman. Elyan was a hastily trained blacksmith. You didn’t show any doubts about their abilities when the handful of us sneaked into Camelot to face Cenred’s army.”

“You have a point,” Arthur conceded, then gave him a wry grin. “And I’m sure you had nothing at all to do with our victory that day.” 

“I might have done a thing or two, seeing as how you wouldn’t let me stay behind,” Merlin said, grinning. “I’ll be there this summer, too. Where you go, I go.”

“Not if you’re too ill to travel,” Arthur said flatly. “Right now, I don’t think you could sit a horse for an hour, let alone for an entire day. Go and rest. Have something to eat. Think about accepting these rooms, and don’t worry about what people will think. I’ve already given Gwaine far more than this, and no one thought anything of it. People expect a king to give gifts.”

“I’m not going to hear the end of it unless I say yes, am I?”

“If you give me an outright ‘no’, I promise not to bring it up for a month at least.” Arthur grinned and rested a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “But please do think about it. Everyone would prefer to have you closer. Give me your answer tomorrow, all right?” Merlin nodded wearily, and that seemed to satisfy the king, for he gave them both a tight smile before striding out of the room. The shadows seemed to deepen as the doors closed behind them, as though he had taken some of the light with him. 

Niniane sighed and dropped into the chair next to Merlin’s. “Well?” 

“I think you’re all conspiring to talk me into living down here.” Merlin folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them. He looked like a sleepy child as he looked up at her through his eyelashes. 

“We conspire because we care.” She mirrored his posture. “You’ve been through so much. Can you blame any of us for wanting you to have something nice? Someplace nice, that you can call your own?”

“Gaius’s chambers are mine.”

“And you still call them Gaius’s chambers. These rooms? At best, you could call them Ambrosius’s, and he’s been dead for thirty years. You could have a fresh start here. Make it your own, without Gaius’s shade looming over you. You’re not a serving boy anymore. You are a friend and counselor to the King of Camelot, and the royal physician besides. What would people-- visitors from the neighboring kingdoms, perhaps-- what would they think if they knew that Camelot’s royal physician slept on a straw mattress in an old storage room?”

“But-”

Niniane touched a finger to his lips. “Don’t ‘but’ me. I may have grown up as a wandering Druid, but even I know that a king’s council is expected to be able to display their wealth, even if that wealth is provided by the king. It reflects poorly on Arthur for you to be sleeping in a cold room, on little better than a pile of straw. Besides. Would it be so terrible to be closer to the people who love you?”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“And it would be so much warmer here in the winter. And the bed in the next room looks very, very comfortable.” She gently traced the sharp line of his cheekbone with a fingertip. 

He almost purred. A spark of desire ignited in his eyes, though it flared out just as quickly. “If I wasn’t sure that I’d fall asleep as soon as I laid down…”

“Someday soon, you’ll be well enough again for that. In the meantime,” she took his hands and stood, gently drawing him to his feet, “no one said we couldn’t try it out. For actual sleeping.”

“In the middle of the day?”

“It’s nighttime somewhere in the world. Come on. No one will begrudge you a bit of sleep when you have nothing else to do.” She took his hands and pulled him upright, then led him into the bedroom. He went willingly. Was he too tired to resist? She glanced back at him and smiled. He smiled back, and she fancied that there was more than a weary acceptance in it. 

The bed proved to be as soft as it looked, and the eiderdown coverlet felt like a cloud brought down to earth. The pillows were much the same. A royal gift, indeed. Only Guinevere had bedding this rich. Niniane ran her hands over the silky fabrics, half humming to herself delight.

“What are you so pleased about?”

“When do I get to handle something this rich? Even if you don’t accept the rooms, you should take the bedding. This is good enough for a king. I’d bet you anything that’s who it was made for.” She crouched beside him to tug his shoes off.

“I’m sure its makers would be thrilled to find out who it went to.”

She looked up at him. “Does this mean you’re going to take the rooms?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Why is everyone so keen for me to accept them?” He sat still, his shoulders hunched, and with a troubled look on his face. “Is there something going on I don’t know about? Something everyone wants to keep from me?”

Without answering, she urged him to put his feet on the bed and stretch out. He laid his head on one corner of a pillow. Niniane sat beside him and took his hand. “You see disasters at every turn. I understand why. The ground keeps dropping out from under you, no matter how you try to do everything right. Arthur sees it, too. That’s why he wants to do these things for you, and give you things. Because he’s your friend, and he cares about you. And I care about you, too, which is why I wish you’d accept the things your friends want to give you. There’s no advantage in declining gifts that are freely offered by the people who love you.”

His eyes were closed. For a moment, she thought he had fallen asleep. Then he blinked owlishly and looked up at her. “I know. It’s hard not to hide. Even after all this time.”

“It’s worth it to step out of those shadows.” She kissed his brow and stroked his hair until his eyes fluttered shut again and his breathing evened. The tension left his face; he almost looked like he was at peace, a child again without a thing to worry about. “If I could save you from all your pain, I would do it in a heartbeat,” she whispered.

She rose and wandered around the room, marveling at the expanse of smooth wood floor and the color of the light through the windows. The lily pattern set in stained glass had been repeated in the bedroom. Had Ambrosius commissioned it, all those years ago? It was hard to imagine a warlord like him giving thought to the look of his windows or commanding that they be decorated with flowers. Warriors did not like to show softness. They equated it with weakness. Arthur was like that. He was only tender with Guinevere in private, only gentle with Merlin in private, as though he could spend the rest of his life pretending that he didn’t love the two of them more than his own life-- each in their way. 

Niniane shuddered to think what Arthur might do to anyone who hurt either Guinevere or Merlin. She had seen the look on his face in that tent at Blackheath where Merlin had lain, burned and dying. Beneath the grief and hopelessness, there had been fury. And shame. 

Men struck out the worst when they had been shamed. Or humiliated.

Glancing back at Merlin, she banished the matter from her mind. It didn’t matter that he was asleep; she wouldn’t risk his sensing the path of her thoughts. He didn’t need to know more than what he remembered about Blackheath. He didn’t need to know that deep down, she feared Arthur. 

Merlin loved him. Merlin trusted him. But Arthur was still a Pendragon, and it had been the Pendragons who brought war and destruction to these lands. New laws and proclamations couldn’t undo the past any more than they could wash away fear.

“Sunlight, Niniane,” she whispered to herself. “Sunlight and flowers and all the pretty things. Let that fill your mind.”

The main room was quiet; its silence weighed on her as she wandered through it, idly spinning the bronze ring on her finger. She started humming again, a lullaby for Merlin’s sake, to help him sleep. He didn’t get enough rest anymore. If he could stay asleep, he’d be haunted by nightmares- cryptic warnings from someone from his past. A ghost, he said. There were a lot of ghosts in his past. He never spoke of them, and she never asked. 

She carried one of the chairs to the window and sat, raising her hand to the window where she let the light play over her skin, blue and white, and blue and white. Outside, life was going on. Servants carried baskets and crates of goods from the markets, children were running about and getting underfoot. Some noble girl argued with her mother. A dog barked. But none of the sounds carried up to Niniane. Life was passing her by in a silent panoply, unnervingly. There wasn’t even any birdsong. That was the hardest thing about living in the castle. No birds to sing in the morning or to say farewell to the end of the day. Just the cold, quiet stone and the chatter of servants. 

Her hand dropped back into her lap. She looked over her shoulder into the bedroom where Merlin slept. He was still quiet, still at peace, and she smiled. There were no birds, but he was there, and he made up for their lack. 

Didn’t he?

Easy enough to tell herself it was so, and thereby pass the hours and days when he was gone, sent away on some errand or another and coming home more broken than before. How many more times would this happen? What would she do on the day when Merlin’s strength was pushed too far by either the gods or the king, and he came home too broken to heal? Or dead? And would she, as a mere maid of honor, be constantly left here to brush the queen’s hair and lace her bodice in the morning? At least Guinevere had a castle full of servants to oversee when Arthur was gone, a task that needed constant wit and attention. Niniane was… a midwife at best, only called upon to aid the chambermaids in childbed, women who might spit in her face if they weren’t afraid of her. She, whose skill and training were nearly a match for Merlin’s. 

Was love alone enough to fill the lonely hours? 

There came a choked cry from the other room. 

“Merlin?” Niniane called, nearly knocking the chair over in her rush. She dashed into the bedroom. Merlin was awake and sitting up, his eyes wide and cloudy. “Merlin?”

He didn’t look at her, just stared at nothing as he fought to control his breathing, to stop choking on thin air. Then finally, he swallowed and took a long, shuddering breath. The cloudiness left his eyes as though a wind had blown it away. 

“Merlin?” she said again. “Are you alright?”

He bowed his head and rubbed his eyes. “Y-yes. I had-- I had that dream again.”

“Hardly seems like a dream,” Niniane said. She checked his brow for fever and found none. He was a bit chilled. “The way you always wake up from it, it seems like a nightmare.”

“A warning.”

“Against what? Sleeping in puddles?” It came out more petulantly than she’d intended. “You keep saying that it’s like you see her underwater. That you can’t understand her clearly. It sounds more like a warning against water.”

“A warning from the water. From the lady of the lake,” he muttered. She did not miss the note of longing in his voice. 

Had he meant for her to hear that? Niniane bit her lip, then straightened and tried to sound cheerful. “Wherever it’s from, it’d be more helpful if they’d just come out and say it. All this guesswork isn’t good for anyone.”

“That’s what Arthur always says.”

“He’s not wrong.” She took care to keep the irritation out of her voice. No matter where they were, how alone they were, Arthur was always with them. ‘ _Where you go, I go,’_ Merlin had said. The opposite seemed to be true, too. She tilted his chin up to look him in the eye. His pupils were normal. Smiling, she brushed her fingers through his hair. “We should probably go back to your rooms. The bed’s not as comfortable, but all your herbs and medicines will be there.”

“Yes, they’re all there. And barely used since I became court physician,” he griped as he put his feet on the floor and felt around for his shoes. “I’ve hardly been able to treat others’ illnesses because I can’t find a cure for my own.”

“Physician, heal thyself?” She helped him stand and kept a grip on his arm, linking hers in his and taking the chance to snuggle close. “We’ll find the cure, whatever it is. There’s an answer somewhere. We’ll find it.”

“I hope so.” Merlin rested his head against hers for a moment before steeling himself for the long walk to his chambers. 

It took less time than Niniane thought it would, mostly because she kept up a steady stream of idle chatter to keep his mind off his aching bones. She’d learned that from Elayne-- keep talking, and keep it vaguely interesting, and the troublesome work would be done before you knew it. They didn’t even have to pause halfway up the stairs so Merlin could catch his breath, though he trembled like an autumn leaf when she opened the door. 

“Sit down,” she ordered, directing him to the table. “I’ll freshen up the soup from earlier, and you can eat some of that. And if you’re still feeling wretched, you can go straight to bed. If not, we’ll look through some more of your old books for answers.”

“Sounds like a wonderful evening,” Merlin said dryly.

“It will be, because I’ll be here to spend it with you,” Niniane replied, and kissed him on the cheek. The sweetness of his smile brightened her spirits so much she almost danced to the hearth, where the soup pot still hung over the coals. She fished out the soggiest bits of vegetables from earlier, consigning them to the bucket that went to the pigs, then added the ones she hadn’t already used, stirring them in with a bit of salt, a bit of chervil, and a bit of this and that, then left it to simmer. She returned to the table and sat down across from him. 

A bowl of the first strawberries had been left for them. Merlin poked at them, picking one up and examining it thoroughly, going through half a dozen before he found one good enough. “Do you want it?”

“Could I say no to the first strawberries of the year?” Niniane leaned forward and before he could hand it to her, bit into the strawberry. It was tart, but still sweet; not quite ripe, but close enough to remind her of summer nights spent eating strawberries with cream and staring up at the stars. She closed her eyes to savor the moment. 

“Good?”

“Almost perfect,” she said, opening her eyes and smiling up at him. 

“Almost?” He brushed a finger across her lips, wiping away a bit of juice. 

“It could be a little sweeter. Give them a couple of weeks, and they’ll start to be perfect.”

“So I should listen to the old wives’ tale that says to harvest strawberries during the full moon?”

“Of course you should listen to old wives. They’re wisest people of all.” She took another strawberry and stripped the leaves from it. “Do you want one?”

“I do,” he said, taking the offered berry between his teeth. He closed his eyes and chewed. Then he wrinkled his nose. “You’re right. They’re a little tart. We’ll have to go out in a fortnight, under the full moon, and pick more then. If that’s what the old wives say we should do.”

“Strawberry picking by moonlight. That’s romantic. We’ll have to keep our plans to ourselves, or else everyone will invite themselves along. Who wouldn’t want to go into the forest under the full moon?”

“Most people we know would prefer to stay at home in their beds. Most people I know, anyway. The forest scares them, especially at night,” Merlin said.

“I feel sorry for them. They don’t know what they’re missing. They don’t get to hear the owls or the nightingales, or the songs of the wolves, or the way the wind blows in the trees… What is it?” she asked, noticing that his expression had turned sad. 

“Nothing,” He picked a strawberry and turned it around and around in his fingertips. “There are so many things that remind me of what I’ve lost.” What those lost things were, he did not say, and those chambers of his mind were closed to her. Even mind-to-mind, she couldn’t hear everything he was thinking. A blessing. Would she want to hear every petty thought that crossed Merlin’s mind? Surely much of it would frighten her. One did not gain the moniker of ‘king’s prophet’ without knowing darkness. And she wouldn’t want him to hear her every thought. She could not say of herself that she was made of sweetness and light. 

Niniane forced herself to smile. “We need to make some new memories for you, then. So there will be happy things for you to remember.” She leaned across the table and kissed him gently. He tasted of strawberries and fresh herbs, but underneath that there was a sour tang of sickness. A knot of fear tightened in her stomach, and she pulled away. “Are you hungry? The soup should be ready by now.”

“I could eat. You should, too. I haven’t seen you eat anything since you got here.”

“I ate with the queen earlier. She stuffed me so full that I don’t think I’ll be hungry again for days. Honestly, I’m not sure how everyone manages to eat so much and not end up rolling around the castle.”

“It’s one of the great mysteries of living here,” Merlin said, laughing. 

“At least I know how you’ve ended up so skinny. You barely eat at all,” Niniane said archly as she stirred the pot and ladled soup into a bowl, picking out the burnt bits and replacing them with more vegetables. “We’ll have to change that. Maybe if you accept the chambers Arthur wants to give you, you can eat with the court more often. Or even every day. Then you wouldn’t be so bony.”

“If I had to eat with the court every day, my eyes would end up rolling out of my head. I only have so much patience for their gossip.” Merlin ran his spoon through the soup before venturing a bite. 

“But you learn so much!” Niniane opened her eyes wide like Elayne did when she had some wild story to tell. “Did you know that Sir Bedivere has been carrying on with Lady Nia? Even though she’s married to Sir Edwin?”

Merlin’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth, his eyebrows rising. “No, I didn’t know that. What does Sir Edwin have to say about it?”

“Absolutely nothing, because it’s not happening, and Sir Edwin knows it. But the gossips won’t be stopped, no matter how the queen glares at them for it.” Niniane rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t keep from smiling. “For now, Lady Nia is extremely attentive to her beloved husband, and Sir Edwin carries on loud conversations with Sir Bedivere because he knows perfectly well that Nia is faithful, and on and on. I wish I could say that the Druids were better about it, but they’re not. It’s like everyone finds it necessary to amuse themselves at another’s expense.”

“That they do,” Merlin said softly, then turned his attention to his soup. It was nearly half gone. 

“At least I only spend mealtimes with them. Guinevere said I could come to other court functions if I wanted to. I don’t want to, but at least I know I’m respectable now.”

He put his spoon down and gave her a level look. “You were always respectable. It was the others who didn’t respect you.”

“My lack of understanding of courtly manners didn’t help. But you have to learn those the hard way. I’m learning.” Niniane smiled to prove there were no hard feelings directed at anyone. 

“Hmph.” Merlin turned back to his soup and finished off the vegetables, then idly dragged the spoon through the remaining broth. “No one’s bothered you lately, though?”

Niniane braced her elbows against the table and rested her chin in her hands. “No, no one’s bothered me. Everyone’s gotten used to me by now. If the king and queen aren’t willing to send me away, there’s not much they can do besides be unpleasant, and even that’s losing its shine. I just do what you do: ignore them, and remind myself that I have friends who care about me.”

“I’m glad to be of some help.” He frowned and rubbed his temples; his eyes squeezed shut. 

“What’s wrong?”

“My head,” he rasped. The color leeched from his face, leaving behind a ghastly pallor. Groaning, he leaned forward until his head rested on the table, one arm clutching at his stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Niniane froze for a moment, eyes wide. Then she jumped up and grabbed a large bowl, dumping its contents-- dried elderflowers-- onto the table. “Here,” she said, urging him to turn in his chair so he could hold the bowl in his lap, then darted across the room to grab an ewer of water and clean cloths. She winced at the sound of Merlin’s retching and hurried back to grab the bowl before his shaking hands dropped it. She set it on the floor and wet one of the cloths to bathe his sweating brow. “How do you feel?”

“Dizzy. It feels like my mouth is burning. And my head…” He curled in on himself, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. His whole body shook. 

“Here’s some water. Rinse your mouth out, then drink a bit.” She held a cup to his lips and, reluctantly, he sipped, swished it about, then spat toward the bowl and took another sip. Niniane rested a hand against his forehead. “You don’t have a fever. Look in my eyes.”

“What?”

“Look at me,” she said sternly, tilting his chin up so he couldn’t look away. “Tell me what you’re feeling.” Panic was rising in her throat. She took a deep breath and fought to keep her voice calm. 

“Dizzy,” he said again, his brow furrowing. “Like I’m burning up. Like I’ve run a hundred miles. Like I’m going to be sick again.” 

Niniane reached for the bowl with its vile contents, but before she could grab it, Merlin’s eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped forward, shaking so badly he nearly fell out of the chair. “Merlin!” 

She wrapped her arms around him and propped him up, hoping he wouldn’t be sick down her back. He shuddered and gasped, weakly clutching at her. “Let’s get you to bed, and I’ll find something to make you better, all right?” There was no chance he understood her; his mind was too full of pain and fear. She took a breath and calmed herself, opening her mind so he might sense it and be soothed. Then she drew his arm around her shoulder and led him, staggering, to the bed. He seemed to breathe easier once she propped pillows behind him. 

“Alright. What’s causing this?” Niniane asked aloud. “Not the soup, I think. If it was unwholesome, it would have taken longer to affect you. The strawberries?” Her stomach clenched at the thought. They’d blithely eaten strawberries set on the table by an unknown hand mere days after someone had poisoned Merlin. Had they tried again-- succeeded again? “But wouldn’t I be sick, too?”

She grabbed the bowl of strawberries and held a hand over them, reaching out with her magic to find whatever poison they had been laced with. And there was nothing there. She tried again, willing herself to look deeper, to focus more, and still there was nothing. It took all her will to not throw the bowl against the wall.

“Think.” What had he eaten that she had not? What air had he breathed that she had not? “Only the soup. But I made it myself. I bought the vegetables myself. Drew the water. Prepared it all myself. Except…” She rushed to the hearth, checking the empty bowls she had stacked when and the spoon and the ladle she had used. None of them showed signs of anything strange. There were no misplaced herbs on the shelves and nothing else out of place. 

A hitch in Merlin’s breathing sent her back to his side. His lips were blue and though he breathed like he couldn’t get enough air, the pulse in his throat was slow and weak. “What’s happening to you?” she breathed, her throat tightening with dread. If she didn’t know what caused his symptoms, how could she treat them?

“Lucky I’ve healed you before,” she whispered. Healed him, danced with him, lain with him, loved him… 

Niniane drew in a deep, calming breath and laid one hand on his forehead, the other over his heart. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself as filled with light. Healing light. She willed some of that light to flow through her hands and into Merlin, loaning him the strength to keep fighting until she found an answer. His breathing eased and his heartbeat improved. She’d kept death at bay for a little while. 

Her chin sank to her chest as she pulled her hands away from Merlin, letting them drop to her sides. She allowed herself a moment to rest, then lurched toward the bookshelves. Squinting at the fading or poorly inscribed titles, she finally found one dealing with poisons. She pulled it off the shelf and set to reading. 

She’d hardly made it through two pages of the scribe’s scrawl when a chill trickled down her spine. She shivered and looked up, half expecting to see some spirit or god or the Cailleach staring back at her, but there was nothing. Just the stillness of the oncoming night and the ominous rasp of Merlin’s breathing. Nothing at all. 

And then there was something. A breath of wintry wind blew through the room, chilling Niniane to the core and rustling the drying herbs and whatever small bits and bobs that weren’t weighed down. She wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the cold and turned her face from a wind that died as suddenly as it had begun.

Niniane caught her breath. Where there had been empty space before, a woman now stood. She was beautiful, but cold; like snow on the mountaintops, and as remote. She was pale, and her black hair spilled over her shoulders like waves of silk. Her face was expressionless, but Niniane sensed a barely hidden malice. Her breath caught. She knew who this was. “Morgana.”

Morgana looked her up and down, then cast a knowing glance deeper into the room where Merlin lay. “What did you do?” she asked, shrugging her cloak off her shoulders and striding toward him.

“I- what? Nothing!” Niniane stepped back in shock, blinked, and rushed to come between the witch and Merlin. “He was eating! I made him some soup. We left for a while. We came back, he ate more of the soup, and he threw up and started shaking and lost consciousness. Someone poisoned him a week ago. They didn’t kill him, so they tried again. I don’t know who. It could be one of a dozen or more people. Magic may be legal again, but it doesn’t mean there aren’t those who hate him. Some hate him almost as much as they hate you.” She stood her ground, keenly aware that she was both smaller and less powerful than Morgana. Like a little dog staring down a bear. But she was defending Merlin, and she was willing to face down a bear, a boar, or Morgana herself for his sake. 

She took a deep breath and willed her voice not to shake. “Why are you here? I know you hate him. You’ve been trying to kill him for years. I won’t let you hurt him now.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Morgana said archly. She raised a hand, and Niniane felt herself being shoved to the floor by an invisible force, tossed aside like a forgotten doll. The witch continued and sat down at Merlin’s bedside. “I’m not here to kill him. Or you. Merlin is still needed in this fight against the Saxons. They have strange gods and powerful magic of their own. If we don’t want them to overrun the Five Kingdoms and slaughter every last Druid, sorcerer, and charm seller, then Merlin must live. Even after everything we’ve done to each other.” There was sadness in her voice at the last, and a regret Niniane couldn’t fathom.

She got to her feet and took a step toward them, intending to cast a spell, pull Morgana away, claw at her eyes-- anything to keep her from touching him. But with another gesture, the witch stilled Niniane’s steps, freezing her in place. Then she placed a hand on Merlin’s forehead. 

There was a warm glow beneath the witch’s hand. It lingered for five long heartbeats, then faded. Morgana sagged and pinched the bridge of her nose like her head ached. But Merlin breathed more easily. Had the witch tried to heal him? His breath still rattled in his chest and he was deathly pale, but he was not struggling as much. 

“What did you do to him?”

“I loaned him strength. What does it look like I did?” Morgana asked scornfully. Her voice was weaker than it had been but steady. Breathing deeply, she straightened and then stood and stalked over to stand in front of Niniane. “But I can’t heal him fully. That’s not my gift. And I don’t know what he was poisoned with.”

Niniane shivered. Suddenly she didn’t feel like a bold little terrier anymore. She felt like a field mouse caught in a hawk’s gaze. “I don’t know, either. I was looking for an answer in one of Merlin’s books. I’m afraid it’ll take too long, though. The symptoms came on so quickly, and I barely know where to begin.”

“Don’t you? But then you wouldn’t know. I made sure of that, didn’t I?” Morgana stroked her cheek, gently, then ran a hand through her hair until she cupped the back of Niniane’s head, her fingers pressing against the knots of bone at the base of her skull. “But the time for that is past. Now it is time for you to remember all the things you’ve done.” She gripped Niniane hard, fingernails digging into her skin.

“What are you doing?” Niniane squeaked.

“Putting an end to something I did before I learned wisdom. But what happens to you after?” Morgana stared into her eyes, and Niniane could see something strange within. Longing? Sorrow? Regret? Perhaps it was all three. There was a history between Morgana and Merlin. One that he had never told her, had only hinted at. But he’d divulged enough to know that there was an ocean of regret between those two. They might have changed the world if only they’d trod a different path.

“What do I do with you?” Morgana gripped her tighter. Niniane struggled not to cry out in pain. The witch's gaze softened, turning almost sorrowful. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry for this.” 

Niniane gasped. “What?”

“It’s time for you to remember all the things you’ve forgotten. But all things must be balanced, mustn’t they?” Morgana’s lips almost turned upward into a smile, albeit a cold one, and cruel. “It’s time for you to remember all that you’ve done.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t they say that you shall know the truth, and that it shall set you free?” Morgana’s grip didn’t lessen as she began whispering words of magic, an endless stream of them that echoed in Niniane’s thoughts like a cry in a mountain valley. Her vision blurred. Bitter cold lanced through her skull and prickled down her spine. It weakened her knees, though some painful force held her upright. She tried to call out, to make it stop, but the words froze in her throat, building up one upon another until she thought she would choke on them. 

Then, abruptly, it ended. Niniane dropped to her knees, one hand reaching up to clutch at the back of her neck. It felt like it had been sliced open, and she expected to see blood, but her fingers came away clean. Catching her breath, she clambered to her feet and rubbed her eyes. The dizziness was fading. Morgana had vanished; a chill in the air was all that remained of her unexpected visit. Niniane looked around, dazed, as though expecting the witch to be standing behind her, but she was alone. Except for Merlin.

“Merlin!” she called out and moved toward him. 

She made it one step before memory caught up with her. He’d been poisoned today, and a week ago. And… earlier. At the last feast, and Gaius’s funeral dinner, and at the little celebration they’d observed at Imbolc, back to Midwinter’s Day, and nearly every other day since. A sudden rush of memory overwhelmed her, little things, mostly. The kinds of ordinary things the mind might overlook, daily tasks done by rote-- teas and medicines she made so often she didn’t have to think about what she put into them. There was no chance she would make them incorrectly.

Except she had. She remembered it all now, and it drove her to her knees again. All the teas she had made for Merlin, to help him sleep and then to ease his aching bones and soothe his queasy stomach. Day after day, since Midwinter, she’d put extra things into those teas-- a few extra pinches of willow bark, a bit of mistletoe where it didn’t belong, or extra portions of hawthorn. Later, after Gaius’s death when Merlin had grown ever sicker, she had forgone the milder drugs for harsher ones. Field poppy and henbane, to exhaust him. Comfrey to sour his stomach. Fairy bells in his wine at the wedding feast. 

And tonight? 

“Oh, gods..” 

The room spun around her until she sucked in a deep and gasping breath. Bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed it back, drawing in another breath to settle herself. She needed to act now, and act quickly. With her full mind on what she was doing, for tonight, in his soup, she had given Merlin the deadliest poison she knew of: aconite. 

“Merlin?” she called out. “Merlin, answer me!” 

His response was a low, pained groan. He was alive, then. 

With a sob, Niniane stumbled toward the shelves, reaching for the best cure she knew for poisons. Charcoal, of all things. Charcoal and a cup of water. Clean water. Had she put anything in the water? She paused with her hand on the ewer, thinking back. Was the water pure? Yes. She’d only tampered with the soup, while Merlin’s back was to her and he couldn’t see what she did. How had he never seen what she’d been doing? Well. He had trusted her, never found it necessary to watch her while she made him tea or food or medicine that should have made him better.

She sniffed and wiped away her tears as she stirred the charcoal into the water, turning the pure water into thin mud. Carefully, she walked to Merlin’s bedside and perched next to him, gently putting an arm under his shoulders to sit him up. “Merlin? Merlin, here. Drink this. It’ll taste awful, but it will help you feel better.” A hysterical giggle almost escaped her lips. 

Merlin was unresponsive. The blackened water pooled against his lips and ran down his chin. Then Niniane willed another bit of energy into him, another little part of her life, urging him to hear her, to open his eyes, to take a drink. To live. Finally, he did it, locking eyes with her though his gaze was cloudy with pain and confusion. Then he took a drink, and another and another until the cup was empty. 

“Good. That’s good. But we’re not out of the woods yet, my love,” Niniane said as she wiped his face clean with her sleeve. “Stay with me, all right? As soon as I know you’ll keep that down, I’ll send for Blaise, and he’ll be able to help you. He can help you more than I can.” She dared not trust herself with his care now. 

She shifted around Merlin until he was leaning against her, her arms wrapped around him so she could feel his struggling heartbeat under her hand, feel his ragged breathing continue, one rasp after another. She buried her face in his hair and bit her lip to keep the weeping at bay. Her tears wouldn’t help. 

Night had fallen by the time Merlin’s shudders subsided. His heartbeat was too slow, but it was steady. His breathing was the same. At some point, he had drifted into sleep or unconsciousness. Whichever one it was, Niniane was content to let him remain there. It gave her the chance to smooth her hair and clothes and wipe the tear stains off her face before sending one of the guards at the base of the stairs to fetch Blaise. She almost felt bad about summoning the physician, knowing he’d already been working since dawn. But then she would remember that it had been her own hands that sprinkled the deadly aconite into Merlin’s food.

All the waiting gave her time to think. All these poisonings, great and small, and she hadn’t noticed a single one. Morgana’s curse had blotted them out of her mind. If it could hide that from her, what else could it do, and what else had it done? Would she continue to poison him slowly, or was it gone forever? Only time would tell. 

And beyond that… What else had the curse done to her? Now that the edges had worn off her shock, her thoughts had wandered down unsettling paths. 

“I wish you were awake,” she said, stroking Merlin’s hair. “You could help me figure this out. I’ve been thinking all this time, you see, and I’m not sure I know myself anymore. I don’t know if the past months, what I felt for you- I don’t know if it was real. Those days in the forest, when you came to celebrate with us and you spoke to me for the first time-- I was overwhelmed. What Druid girl wouldn’t be smitten with Emrys smiling at her? It must have been how Guinevere felt when Arthur noticed her for the first time. ‘Why is he looking at me, of all people?’” 

Niniane folded her arms tightly against herself and stared at nothing. “Gods, I must have looked like a fool to Iseldir and all the others with the way I was mooning over you, but can you blame me? If you asked each of them for their firstborn, they’d have handed their children over to you without thinking twice. Sending little me, an orphan with no family, to Camelot must have been an easy decision. A token of goodwill between Arthur Pendragon and the Druids. All this time, I thought I was in love with you. And maybe I was. Maybe I still am. But…” she trailed off, sniffing. “How do I know it’s me in love with you, and not a remnant of Morgana’s curse? Time might tell, but can either of us afford to wonder for so long?”

She looked back down at Merlin and tried to resurrect the emotions she had felt as late as that afternoon, but she could only remember them as they had been. The sharpness, the longing, the spark of jealousy she felt when Merlin turned his gaze away from her and toward Arthur-- all of it was gone, reduced to a mere echo. It could have been the shock of the evening that dulled her mind, but a seed of doubt, once planted, was quick to take root and grow. 

“My love,” she whispered. The words felt hollow in her mouth, something said by rote, because they were expected. “I don’t know if I loved you, or if I was just infatuated because of who you are, and this curse made me believe something that wasn’t true.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks. 

The door burst open and Blaise strode into the room with little Stilicho hurrying in behind him. “What’s happened? That useless guard couldn’t tell me anything.”

Niniane straightened, flushing. “He was poisoned. Aconite. I think,” she said, unconsciously shielding herself. “He ate some soup, then started complaining that he was dizzy and couldn’t catch his breath. Then he threw up and started shaking. I got him to bed. He was incoherent for a time, but he’s been unconscious for... a while. His heartbeat is steady, but very slow.”

Blaise cursed in a strange language and dropped to his knees beside the bed, waving her off. “Get back. Let me look at him. How’s his breathing?”

“Too slow, but steady. Like his heart. I’ve given him charcoal mixed with water, and he’s kept it down.”

“Good, good,” Blaise nodded absently, his hand pressed against Merlin’s throat. “Stil, go and make up some more of that charcoal mess, just in case. The proportions I showed you. Do you remember it?” The boy made an affirmative noise and set to work. 

“I should go and tell the queen. She’ll want to know what’s happened,” Niniane said, rising slowly. The numbness within was quickly turning to ice, as though the cold wind that brought Morgana here had settled into her soul. “Send for me if anything happens.” 

If Blaise responded, she didn’t hear him. She did not remember walking down the long staircase, or the journey to the queen’s chambers, or even tapping at the door. This must have been what it was like, all those times when she had spooned poison into Merlin’s food and not remembered it. Images, vivid when they were in front of her, then fading away like dreams upon waking. 

Elayne ushered her in, then vanished to fetch the queen. Niniane took a deep breath, trying to fill the hole that had opened up in her chest, as though air could ease the bitter ache of a breaking heart.

Guinevere appeared in front of her like a ghost in gray, her brow furrowed. “Niniane? What’s wrong? Has something happened to Merlin?”

“Yes. He’s been poisoned again,” Niniane said, her voice distant and strangely calm.

“What? Is he alright? Do you know who did it?”

“It was me,” Niniane said softly. “It was always me.”

  
  
  
  


* * *

Guinevere didn’t allow Niniane to tell half the story before she stopped her and sent for Arthur. She had to admire the queen’s patience. She’d lived it all, and could barely stop the words from spilling out, as though one of the curse’s lingering effects was confession. If only it made her feel better. If only it made her feel less afraid of the storm in Arthur’s eyes when she began her story again.

“...I don’t know when she could have done it. I don’t remember seeing her before. But she undid the curse like she knew exactly what she was doing,” Niniane said. He hand rose to press against the back of her neck as though she expected to feel some injury there, though the flesh was warm and whole. “It felt so cold.”

“How can you be sure it was Morgana if you’ve never seen her before?” Arthur asked. He was holding himself as though restraining himself from shaking her or worse. It surprised her. At Blackheath, Arthur had unleashed an army against the man who ordered Merlin’s execution. If Guinevere wasn’t there, what might he do to her?

She swallowed and took a deep breath. “Among my people, the greatest of us are simply known. Their power calls to us. No one had to point Emrys-- Merlin-- out to me. I could just tell. The same goes for Morgana. She appeared in Merlin’s chambers, and I knew it was her. There was no else else it could be.” 

“And so, what, you never saw her before, but once upon a time she laid a curse upon you that made you poison Merlin over and over again without you remembering a single moment of it? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” Arthur’s voice rose at the end, and while he hadn’t taken a step toward her, Niniane shrank back in her chair. 

“Arthur, stop. We’ve seen the effects of curses before.” Guinevere rested a hand on Arthur’s arm. “Magic works in ways we don’t understand. Even Merlin has said there are things about it he doesn’t understand. If Niniane says she wasn’t aware of what she was doing, then I believe her. If she knew, if she remembered, how could she have hidden it from so many of us for so long?”

“Morgana hid what she was for a long time, too,” Arthur said darkly, glaring at Niniane before turning away and stalking toward the window. 

Guinevere spared her an apologetic glance before joining him there. Their quiet conversation was a low buzzing in her ears, like bees swarming over a garden of flowers. She couldn’t understand what they said, but she did not miss the loathing glance Arthur sent her way. Niniane quickly looked down, spreading her hands wide in her lap. They were shaking. Her body was beginning to react to the night’s events the way her numbed mind had not. It remembered where she was: A Druid girl in the heart of the Court of Camelot with the Pendragon himself, in all his barely restrained fury, standing so close she could almost reach out and touch him. The queen might be able to contain that fury, but could Guinevere keep him from tossing her into the dungeon and sending her to the headsman’s block in the morning? She’d confessed to attempted murder, after all. It was within his rights to administer the king’s justice. 

Some small part of her wanted that. Easier to die than live with everything she’d done. 

But the greater part of her wanted to live, to see the sunrise and the one after that, and live with the hope-- however faint it was-- that her love for Merlin had been real, not an illusion crafted by some witch’s curse. She closed her hands into fists to still their shaking, breathing deeply to stop her shivers. 

She looked up, past the king and queen and out the window. Night had long since fallen. It was the dark of the moon, and on Beltane Eve. “When all sorts of wild things will walk in the woods,” Niniane whispered. She could disappear into those woods and take her chances with those wild things. It was as safe as staying in Camelot, with Arthur always watching her, always wondering if some part of the curse still lurked within her.

So what was she to do? Live out her days here, within these airless stone walls, with every eye watching, waiting to blame her for the next terrible thing that happened to Merlin? Or would she risk breaking his heart and leave this place? Of the choices before her, the latter seemed the best. Without her, Merlin would still have Arthur. He would still have Guinevere, and the knights, and the chance to fall in love with someone else. He would have a future. 

With her, he would have her doubts to endure, have the whisper of them constantly swirling in the back of her mind. She would always wonder if her hands were her own, or if some unknown force would take them from her and use them for ill. ‘If I could save you from all your pain, I’d do it in a heartbeat’, she’d told herself just that afternoon. She still meant it, even if she felt all hollow inside.

She had to leave. 

The months she had spent in Camelot had been a dream and nothing but a dream. How wonderful it had been to be loved by Merlin-- by Emrys, of all the people in the world. But he had a greater destiny than loving a common Druid girl. ‘Where you go, I go,’ he had told Arthur. 

Any fool with eyes to see could see that Arthur was the great love of Merlin’s life, not little Niniane.

Quietly, she stood. The king and queen were still quietly arguing by the window. They wouldn’t notice her departure, even if she didn’t use the disappearing trick Merlin had taught her. She used it anyway and hurried out the back stairs, running through the corridors and up the long flight of stairs to Merlin’s chambers. Pausing at the door to catch her breath, she opened her senses to see who else was there-- Blaise and Stilicho and Merlin, as expected. 

She breathed words of magic to make Blaise and Stil fall asleep where they were and pushed the door open. It was warm and quiet inside. Comfortable. Usually so happy. She had such fond memories of this room, and tears welled in her eyes at the thought of leaving it all behind. But she had to. 

She forced herself to keep walking until she reached Merlin’s side, then dropped to her knees beside him and rested a hand on his forehead. “Merlin,” she whispered, “Hear me now and remember. Remember that I have loved you. It was a beautiful dream, but darkness has fallen between us. If I stay here, it will remain between us. It was Morgana’s doing, and it’s not your fault. But this darkness will distract you from the great work you must do. You are meant to be at Arthur’s side, not mine. I understand that. Please, stay with him and do not look for me.” 

Niniane brushed her tears away and smoothed the blankets over Merlin’s chest, watching him for a while as he dreamed. “Do not look for me. You have more important things to think about than one silly Druid girl. Perhaps someday, when all your labors are over, we will meet again. And maybe then, we can be happy.” She kissed him on the forehead, savoring the sweet grass and musk scent of him one last time, then turned away, biting her lip until it bled to keep herself from weeping as she pulled the bronze ring off her thumb and set it on the table. For him, if he didn’t hate her in the morning. 

She paused at the door, the urge to look back almost stronger than she could bear. But if she looked back, she might be lost. So Niniane walked through the door and closed it behind her.

Then, before she could change her mind, she cast the spell of invisibility once more and fled the castle. 

* * *

  
  


She had forgotten the blackness of the forest in the dark of the moon. Under the canopy of the trees, without even the starlight to guide her, Niniane was forced to summon a tiny light to find her way through the trees toward the wild wood of Broceliande. For hours now, she’d been traveling, sometimes running and sometimes picking her way slowly through brambles and hazel thickets. Once, she’d edged along a fast-running stream until she found a natural ford above a small waterfall. If it had been daylight, she might have tarried there to watch the water, enraptured by the fall’s song, the thing she loved best about the forest. But she kept moving, for her little light would not last forever and she needed to reach Broceliande before dawn.

The question of where to go once she left the city hadn’t taken as long to answer as she’d thought it would. During her first dash toward the woods, it had seemed impossible. Where in all of Albion could she run that Merlin couldn’t find her? Once she reached the ruined temple and paused to catch her breath, however, the answer had come to her: she had to leave the mortal lands. 

Not the realm of the dead, to be sure. She had no desire to see the realms of Annwn quiet yet, no matter how many delights the tales told of. There were other realms of the world, though, and the songs her people sang told of them. They also told of the risks of dealing with the fae, but… “But what? Why there?”

Niniane stopped and held the light close to her chest. Why had she decided to seek the shifting borders of the wild wood of Broceliande and not go back to the Druids, who would help her reach the Summer Country so she could seek the mists beyond? Merlin wouldn’t be able to find her there, either. 

_“Because you do not want him to forget you, Little One.”_

She stopped short; the light flickered and died in response to her surprise. She saw its afterimage, a bright spot against the darkness. “Who is there?”

_“Do you not know? You sought me out.”_

Tentatively, Niniane held her hand out and summoned a light to her palm. She stood at the edge of a stand of twisted elms, their branches and leaves bleached to white in the glow. A clearing of tangled grass lay before her, within which, at the very edge of her light, she saw the shadow of an ancient hawthorn tree. Her throat went dry. “Have- have I reached Broceliande? I thought it was still miles away?”

The voice laughed, a beautiful, lyrical sound that would make a bard weep to hear it. _“On the eve of Beltane, Little Mortal, the borders of my lands shift and grow as they will. Or as they are called for.”_

“I didn’t call out,” Niniane said, her voice shaking. 

_“Did you not?”_ The voice was coy, amused. _“Shall I return to my quiet home, then, and leave you to the Pendragon, who will no doubt send his knights to look for you?”_

“No!” Niniane’s gaze flitted around as she tried in vain to find the voice’s source. “No. I cannot return to Camelot. I have no place there anymore. If I had a place there to begin with. I am-” her voice broke. She cleared her throat and drew a deep breath to continue. “I was cursed. And even if it was broken, my life can’t go back to the way it was before. King Arthur would always look at me with suspicion, and I… I would suspect myself as well.”

_“And why not return to your people, Little Mortal?”_

It was the Faerie Queen in the clearing with her; Niniane understood that now. “You are Queen Mab, are you not? The Faerie Queen?” Around her, she heard skittering and rustling, as though a hundred tiny creatures were swarming, ready to pounce. What faerie kin would she see if she turned around and shone her light at them? Nothing beautiful, she was certain. She swallowed hard and kept her eyes forward, even when something she knew was not grass brushed at her ankles.

 _“You will answer a question with a question?”_ The voice seemed amused, though a hard edge lay under the words. 

“You know who I am. It is only fair that I should know who I am dealing with.” 

_“Is life fair, Little Mortal?”_

Niniane laughed, her fear turning acidic in her stomach before rising up into anger. Morgana had stolen her love and her peace of mind. She wouldn’t be mocked now by a faerie, no matter the consequences. “What would you know of life, O Eternal One? Does the Queen of Air and Darkness sit upon her throne and ponder her life’s end? Better to ask a bird what it means to fly, or ask the stars why they move through the year.” Her earlier numbness had worn off, and she felt giddy, as though drunk with the night and the terrifying thrill of encountering the Faerie Queen herself. 

The Queen hissed, and all the little fae creatures surrounding Niniane hissed too, and then all was silent for. For a heartbeat, then five, then a dozen. She hardly dared to breathe, wondering if some icy finger would touch her on the lips and draw the breath from her lungs. 

And then Mab, the Queen of Faerie, laughed. It was a sound like silver bells on a clear, cold night. The fae creatures surrounding her dispersed, moving through the grass like ripples on the surface of a pond. Warm hands took her by the shoulders and nudged her toward the hawthorn tree. _“Tell me, then, Little Mortal. Why do seek me out, on the eve of Beltane, no less? Not for death’s sweet gift, else you would have taken poison and been done with it. Nor to be forgotten, else you would have sought the mists. Why, then, have you come to me?”_

“I…” Niniane looked over her shoulder, back toward Camelot, as though Merlin could have risen from his bed and followed her all this way. “I don’t want Merlin-- Emrys-- to forget me, but I don’t want him to look for me. He has a great destiny before him, and what am I but a drab little songbird, always chirping and distracting him from what he must do?”

_“You undervalue songbirds. Do the bards not sing songs of the nightingales and the larks and the blackbirds? Yet I have heard you sing of a summer’s night, Little Songbird, and I would have taken you for my own if I could have. And now tonight, at the dark of the moon, you walk into my realm and offer yourself to me freely.”_

“Would you give me shelter?” 

_“Give?”_ Mab laughed, the silvery tones turning dark. _“I do not give without receiving something in kind. You will sing for me when I call for you, Little Songbird, and I will shelter you. Or you can refuse my offer and return to the mortal realms. Decide quickly, for the dawn comes. When the sun rises again, I will be gone and you will have to contend with the Pendragon and his mercy.”_

“Such as it may be…” Niniane whispered. She looked down at her hands. They were shaking, so she clasped them and held them tightly against her chest. Her heart was pounding. “I no longer trust these hands. I meant to do good with them, to heal. But they have been turned against me and caused me to harm him who I loved best. I will--” she broke off and glanced skyward, where the first gray light of dawn was already chasing away the faintest stars. “Will I ever see him, see Emrys again?”

Mab’s hands cupped her face, and for the first time, Niniane saw the Faerie Queen. She was beautiful beyond measure. Inhumanly so, with hair that shone like radiant starlight and eyes as green as holly leaves against the first winter’s snow. _“You ask for an assurance of a future that may never come to pass, Little Songbird. But if Emrys survives his great trials, then I will release you for a time. For a year and a day, he may be yours for a little while. After that, you will return to me until the world is utterly changed, and the Once and Future King rises from his long sleep. Then, and only then, you may have him once more. Perhaps. I predict much, but I promise nothing. You may take my offer and have a place of honor at my side, or you can reject me and take your chances with the doubting mortals.”_

All the stories Niniane had ever heard of the faeries had warned against accepting such an offer. None of the stories Niniane had ever heard of the faeries seemed to matter at this moment. 

She drew in a deep and ragged breath and cast one last look at the fading stars above. _Forgive me,_ she begged of them. Then she looked Mab in the eye and nodded. “I accept your offer.” 

_“My Songbird.”_ Mab smiled and leaned forward to kiss Niniane full on the lips. She smelled of summer rains and winter snows, of spring roses and autumn apples. Then she took Niniane by the hand and led her into the shadows of wild Broceliande, where a new and utterly strange new world began to unfold around her, and the old one faded and faded into the gray mist that washed away all signs of her passing


	4. Chapter 4

Merlin had been awake since dawn. Arthur could tell from the shifting of his breathing- from the slow, slow susurras of sleep to the uneven catches and sighs of whatever emotions the sorcerer strove to control. Neither of them had spoken. Arthur was content to let Merlin remain curled up with his back to him, shielding himself from the world for a little while longer. 

He hadn’t slept all night. Guinevere had brought Niniane in with her strange story as Arthur was preparing for bed, and once they realized the girl had vanished, all chance of sleep had disappeared with her. He’d begun a search of the castle, then a quiet one of the city, knowing that their chances of finding her were slim. Niniane had strong magic of her own, and Merlin had been teaching her even more. And even if they did find her, how could he convince her that his anger had burned out, that Guinevere had convinced him to give her a chance to prove herself? He’d given Merlin a chance, after all, and hadn’t that turned out for the best? 

But Niniane hadn’t spent years building a solid foundation of trust in him or Guinevere or the knights. He couldn’t blame her for leaving. He could only blame her for breaking Merlin’s heart. 

Arthur had come upstairs in that dark hour before dawn and dismissed the yawning Blaise, who left behind Stilicho and instructions as to what to do if Merlin’s condition suddenly worsened. The healer was optimistic. The sorcerer would recover in a few days, he said, and if the poisoner were caught he would be fine. He could only give Blaise a half-hearted smile in response. Merlin’s body might recover quickly, but his heart would not. That would take longer to mend, if it ever did. 

“She’s gone,” Merlin said suddenly, his voice a faint rasp. It wasn’t a question. He already knew. 

“No one’s seen her since last night. She told me and Guinevere what happened. She said she’d been poisoning you all that time without knowing what she was doing. Morgana had laid a curse on her, and then removed it. I think she thought it wasn’t completely gone, though. Perhaps she thought some remnant was left and would affect her again later. I know she was devastated by it, and by what she’d done to you.” Bad enough to know your hands had unknowingly caused a loved one’s suffering. Arthur knew that feeling. Worse to wonder if your hands would cause more harm later, when you should have known better. “Perhaps we can ride out and look for her in a few days or a week, whenever you’re feeling better.”

Merlin let out a long, shaking breath and was silent. He shifted under the blankets, flexing his fingers with the same careful movements he’d used when the thick bandages had come off after his near-burning. “She told me not to look for her,” he whispered, the sound of it nearly lost. 

“When did she say that? No one saw her come back here last night.”

The quiet deepened between them, and all the room’s small sounds seemed loud in comparison: Stilicho shifting in his sleep in Merlin’s old bed in the storeroom, the rustling of mice in the walls, little songbirds scrabbling along the roof above the windows, and even the cacophony of the market in the lower town as it came to life and sent its faint but myriad sounds rising into the air. 

“I believe her story,” Arthur blurted. He winced. His voice sounded overloud, like he’d shouted. Softer, he said, “She loved you, any fool could see it. I can’t imagine how anything but a curse would make her-- make her do what she did. Her voice, when she was telling me about it.. She sounded so lost. It wasn’t a show. It was genuine.” 

Merlin sighed, but remained silent. His hands went still, and for a while Arthur thought he’d gone back to sleep. Then he shifted and pushed the blankets away from his shoulders, his hand flopping back to his side as though it had taken all the strength he had. “I’ll take the rooms.” 

“The rooms?” Arthur frowned at the sudden turn. “Oh. The ones from yesterday?”

“Yes, the ones from yesterday. They’re quiet. Not full of bad memories.”

Arthur glanced around involuntarily, his own memories of this place rising unbidden. Most of them were good: him teaching Morgana how to wield a sword, Gaius patching up the hurts he’d earned in the practice ring, stolen moments with Guinevere. He’d always found Gaius’s chambers to be warm and comforting with its books and herbs and oddities lying about and the morning light pouring in. It hadn’t occurred to him that Merlin’s perspective of it might be different, but of course it would be, after all the pain and loss he had endured here. A new room would be a fresh start, away from the memories that lingered. 

“Do you want to wait until you’re feeling better, or shall I have the lads start packing your things today?” 

“Wait until this afternoon. I’m not feeling up to it right now.”

“All right. Just give the word when you’re ready. Send Stilicho to tell me.”

“He’ll need his things, too. I’ll need an apprentice. I can’t do all of this alone.”

“Stilicho? Isn’t he Blaise’s apprentice?” Arthur glanced toward the old storeroom where the boy slept, as though expecting him to appear at the sound of his name. 

“Yes. He has been,” Merlin said, his voice growing stronger with use. “He’s made friends with the squires, though. Especially Gareth. And Blaise has found a younger boy in the lower town who’s keen to learn the art. But he can’t afford to house and feed three apprentices. I don’t have anyone to help me like I helped Gaius, and Stil wants to be closer to his friends. It’ll work out for everyone.” 

“You’ve talked to Blaise about this?” Arthur asked, already warming to the idea. Stil was a good lad and clever. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to have someone watching out for Merlin those nights he overworked himself with healing or with magic. 

“Yes, for a couple of weeks. Stil seems pleased with it.” 

“If everyone’s in agreement, then,” Arthur said wryly, feeling like he was late to a meeting he hadn’t been invited to. “You do realize I’m going to order him to come and get me whenever you’re ready to collapse and can’t be bothered to tell anyone?”

“That won’t be a problem now, will it?” There was a shade of anger in Merlin’s voice, which ‘til now had been soft and expressionless. Then he sighed and seemed to collapse into himself. 

“Maybe not,” Arthur said softly, placatingly. “But I know you. You’d work yourself to death if you thought it would help another, and at the end of it you’d smile and try to convince me that all was well. If you want Stil to assist you, to be your apprentice, then promise me you’ll let him help you when you’re feeling wretched. No one will think less of you for it.” 

For a while, Merlin was quiet. Then he nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Not a promise, but Arthur would take it. “Good. I’ll send someone to fetch Stil’s things this morning, and have the servants start bringing your things downstairs. You could sleep downstairs tonight if you wanted to.” 

“I know.”

“Yeah.” He sighed. There was nothing he could say or do to cheer Merlin up today. “If there comes a time when you want to go and look for her,” he couldn’t bring himself to say Niniane’s name, “tell me, and we’ll go together.” He rested a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, intending it as a good-bye, intending to go and let Merlin rest.

He had half risen when Merlin caught his wrist, his fingers bony and cold and shaking. His grip was no stronger than a child’s, yet it was strong enough to stop a king. Camelot’s business could wait an hour. Here was a soul in need, and he was honorbound to give aid. And so he remained, neither he nor Merlin saying a word until the sunbeams grew long across the floor, then shortened and disappeared, leaving shadows in their wake and a cold sense of mourning in the air. 


End file.
